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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28934997">paint me a picture, play me a piece</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadySilvertongue/pseuds/LadySilvertongue'>LadySilvertongue</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Anxiety, F/F, F/M, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, References to Depression, no beta we die like marco</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 14:27:25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>18,523</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28934997</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadySilvertongue/pseuds/LadySilvertongue</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Bertholdt hates the smell of turpentine that always seems to waft into his apartment no matter what he does.</i><br/> <br/>  <i>Reiner loves the sound of music that dances into his own.</i></p>
<p> </p>
<p>In which Reiner is an artist that’s barely getting by, and Bertholdt is a musician just at the cusp of finally putting his name out there. Both are desperately lonely—naturally, their paths have to cross.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Pieck Finger/Porco Galliard, Reiner Braun/Bertolt Hoover</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>70</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>83</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Petrichor</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Okay, so I’ve been binge-reading the last couple of days and read some of the most enjoyable stuff, but it also hit me (again) just how little there is when it comes to actual Reibert-centric fics and—yeah let’s just say this is purely self-indulgent. That said, if the writing is haphazard that’s all on me—English isn’t my first language, and I know I fuck up a lot with tenses XDDDD sue me. </p>
<p>Also, imma put a disclaimer; I know next to nothing about the classical music industry or art industry—I just like painting with watercolors and playing the piano so that’s what my boys will be doing lolololol also, I own nothing lololol </p>
<p>I regret nothing and I’ve only written until this far, and who knows how long I’m going to be Reibert trash, but hopefully my lazy ass can finish this.</p>
<p>Read at your own risk XDDDD</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>Reiner</b>
</p>
<p>The heavy downpour of August rain sends Reiner’s apartment into a state of slow decay. Or perhaps it’s accelerated decay, seeing as how the walls are visibly growing damp, and there’s a suspicious dripping that isn’t coming from the plumbing under his sink, or the shower in his bathroom. As it is, he’s already got three buckets strategically placed around his place to collect droplets from the leaks that he actually /can/ see. </p>
<p>Still, it could be worse.</p>
<p>He could be sitting outside, huddled between two dumpsters to shield himself from the deluge, or god forbid—taking refuge at a shelter. Not that he has anything against shelters, he’s grateful for them, even... but he has to believe that he’s put those days behind him now.</p>
<p>Not that far behind him, but behind him nonetheless.</p>
<p>Just enough that he can say he’s ahead.</p>
<p>It’s something he doesn’t want to go back to, even if he keeps the experience close to his heart. He’s had enough of the whole ‘starving artist’ trope to never want to end up like that again, thank you very much.</p>
<p>If he can’t finish this personal piece and start a commission, though...</p>
<p>No. Between coaching at Annie’s gym and the odd jobs he’s doing whenever he’s got free time, he’ll manage. The thought is still constantly in the back of his head, though.</p>
<p>Reiner sighs, setting down his palette and the brush he’d been using for his current project. Might as well take a break now that he’s brought himself out of that twilight zone where reality faded away and his craft became everything. There’s no point in forcing himself to do more right now with how crowded his head is. He’s only going to end up fucking the piece up and hating himself even more than he already does for rushing it. Instead, he gets up and takes a couple of steps back, frowning at the face that returns his gaze now that he isn’t focusing on the minute details.</p>
<p>The painting is of a blonde, short-haired woman—or at least, /Reiner/ knows it’s a woman. The body is oddly deformed, the limbs angled uncomfortably, twisting and contorted at the joints, it’s reaching fingers almost grotesquely elongated and spider-like, chest—bare and flat. Nothing to distinguish it as a female to people other than himself. Her face is of a similar state, the smile on her is wide with too many teeth, cheeks richly toned and rosy, the shadows severe and haunting, the eyes glassy. If it were a real person, it would give the impression of the owner not being all there. Reiner thinks he might’ve overdone the gums, though—made them a bit too red, added a bit too much damar to enhance the glossy sheen. It’s as though she’d just had a bite of fresh, juicy meat—but he likes how it looks.</p>
<p>Disturbing.</p>
<p>With a grunt to himself, he walks over towards the only window in the apartment and opens it up, fresh air and the smell of petrichor clearing his head of the haze that was starting to blanket it. He’s had the place for three months now, but he still sighs at the view—a solid grey wall blocking the entirety of the park just a block over. He swears sometimes he can catch a whiff of the antiseptics they use there, the hospital standing so close to the building that houses his studio apartment that he could probably lean out and touch the bleak surface. Maybe even vandalize it with the spray paints collecting dust under his bed.</p>
<p>Reiner tries not to mind the dreary looking thing—it's probably the only reason he can even afford the unit in the first place. </p>
<p>Well, that, and the music.</p>
<p>The rain has been beating a steady rhythm and splash onto the streets below and on his windowsill, the thunder a soothing rumble that rolls across the sky every now and again, but neither of those things can hold a candle to the music.</p>
<p>Any minute now. </p>
<p>Any minute now, and his cute neighbor, whom Reiner has only ever seen glimpses of, will start playing. Most people would be annoyed by someone practicing the piano—and one that isn’t even muted at that!—at half past four in the morning, but Reiner loves the melodies that dance into his space. He doesn’t know much about most of the pieces themselves, but he can recognize a couple of tunes every now and again, and he can tell that the man playing has /skill/. </p>
<p>Sure enough, the sound of warm-up scales cut through the constant drizzle outside and the sputtering of his ancient heating unit. Reiner should probably just not bother with it, but the steady buzz helps create an illusion of comfort sometimes.</p>
<p>Now, though, now Reiner can block it out and attune to the mellow notes instead.</p>
<p>Routinely, he shuffles back over to his canvas and art supplies to start putting them away. He grabs the brushes and opens up a jar he’d filled with turpentine, scrunching his nose up at the smell before dropping the long handles in, bristles down, and bringing it over to the cramped storage nook beside his equally cramped bathroom. Reiner shuts the frame snugly and wedges some rags between the gaps to keep the odor in.</p>
<p>He knows the fumes are bad.</p>
<p>He hopes it doesn’t reach his neighbor.</p>
<p>The scales peter off just as Reiner shrugs out of his shirt and sits down on his bed, and a slow, soothing melody starts after the first couple of chords—one he doesn’t know the name of, but one he likes regardless. He can almost picture the glide of fingers over sleek ivory keys.</p>
<p>Do they even make piano keys out of ivory these days? </p>
<p>Reiner doesn’t know.</p>
<p>He scoots further up on his bed and leans against the wall, closing his eyes as the rhythm picks up. Somehow, the song reminds him of snow—and maybe a picture of the northern lights.</p>
<p>He imagines the silhouette of a man sitting at a grand piano, with that exact scene in the background. One of these days, he’s going to work up the nerve to meet 302 and ask if he’d be willing to let Reiner dedicate a project for him. </p>
<p>For now, though, Reiner gratefully lets the music carry him off to sleep.</p>
<p>It’ll be the first time in a long while that he’ll be able to, after all.</p>
<p>- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -</p>
<p>“You look less like shit today,” Porco greets as soon as Reiner steps into the gym. “I take it the piano man is back?”</p>
<p>Reiner rolls his eyes.</p>
<p>“That’s your anthem, Pock, not mine.”</p>
<p>“Well yeah, but you actually do have a piano guy. And you’re much more of a lonely, depressed, and sexually repressed man than I am,” Porco continues, arms circling around the punching bag he’d been using to stop it from swinging too heavily. Reiner sees him raise an eyebrow at the glare being sent his way. “I’m right though, aren’t I?”</p>
<p>“Yeah. About my neighbor being back. Not any of the other stuff,” Reiner huffs. He’s perfectly fine, thanks. Or at least, he’s getting by—that’s more than enough. “Where’s Annie?”</p>
<p>“Did you ask him to be your nude model yet?”</p>
<p>Reiner closes his eyes and doesn’t deign that worthy of a response. He drops his bag behind the counter and grabs the schedule logs, flipping them open. He doesn’t have a lot of clients today. He could probably get off early and put in some extra time to finish his piece—maybe start another one, or check if he’s gotten any commissions.</p>
<p>“Come on, man. You’re telling me you still don’t know anything about the guy? Just gonna keep creepily listening in on him, huh?”</p>
<p>“You make it sound like I’m listening to him get off.”</p>
<p>“He might have a piano playing kink. For all you know, he could be jerkin’ off while he serenades you. Or maybe even using his dick to serenade you, and you’re just too much of a pussy to find out.”</p>
<p>Reiner flips Porco off, resolutely /not/ thinking about that. He wouldn’t want anyone thinking things like that about him and his own craft, after all—no matter how handsome his neighbor is from the fleeting glances he’s managed to steal.</p>
<p>“You make erotic shit all the time. Make him a nude painting of yourself with your bodily—“</p>
<p>“Porco, that’s like me telling you to hump all our equipment before you open the shop,” Reiner cuts the other off, grimacing. “I’m sure nobody wants your nasty sweat and cum on—“</p>
<p>“I don’t want to hear about your disgusting sex lives,” Annie’s voice quips, and Reiner snorts, turning his face down to hide the embarrassed flush he must be sporting.</p>
<p>Behind her trails Marcel, snickering.</p>
<p>“You’re assuming Reiner even /has/ a sex life,” the older Galliard snarks.</p>
<p>“Really, Marcel? You too? You know what... can we just—not talk about sex at all? You’re all gross,” Reiner mumbles, then he moves on before any of them—mainly Porco—can continue the conversation. “Gonna be fairly empty today. Think I can leave early?”</p>
<p>“No,” Annie immediately bites out.</p>
<p>Reiner sighs. “You’re such a hard-ass.”</p>
<p>“Somebody’s gotta feed you, but I’m not doing it for free.”</p>
<p>“She’s got a point,” Marcel gives him a sympathetic smile before both of them head off towards the private office. Porco just shrugs and goes back to throwing punches at his bag.</p>
<p>Reiner slumps on the hard plastic chair and resigns himself to a slow day. Outside, the atmosphere turns dark again, and then a blanket of rain is drenching the streets for the fourth day in a row.</p>
<p>It’s only eight in the morning. </p>
<p>- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -</p>
<p>
  <b>Bertholdt</b>
</p>
<p>It’s only eight, but Bertholdt is already eager to go back to bed. Well, given that his bed had dried off, that is. He should’ve known that the early morning mishaps had set a precedent to how the rest of the day was going to go—which is to say, terribly.</p>
<p>He’d woken up earlier only after a couple of hours of sleep from a cold, wet spot on his pillow, courtesy of a leak on the ceiling.</p>
<p>Then he’d managed to scald a couple of fingers on his right hand after he’d poured too much hot water from his new kettle.</p>
<p>Then he hadn't been able to focus at all on practicing the piece he’d chosen to play for the audition only two weeks from today.</p>
<p>And now, /now/ the chemical-y smell. </p>
<p>Bertholdt doesn’t know what it is, and he isn’t eager to find out on the off chance that his neighbor is some small time crackhead, brewing drugs right in the apartment next to his own, but it is highly unpleasant. More so now because he’s stuck and can’t leave the apartment because of the downpour. </p>
<p>On any other day, in any other place, Bertholdt would’ve loved to stay cooped up indoors, with nothing but music, and coffee, and maybe breaks in between with a good book on the windowsill, or a scroll through his social media feeds. But no, there’s no going around the fact that today is /today/, and this place is /this place/, and while those two aren’t necessarily bad things on their own, the circumstances around today and this place makes Bertholdt hate his predicament. </p>
<p>Stupid neighbor, he thinks to himself. </p>
<p>At least the scent of dampened earth from the park is carried by the wind, and overpowers everything else if Bertholdt sticks his head out the window, which is exactly what he does, drizzling be damned.</p>
<p>Maybe he should finally take it up with his neighbor. He doesn’t want to endure the worried looks Pieck gives him, or listen to another one of her well-meaning spiels about how he should /move out/. He’s plenty comfortable.</p>
<p>Just... not all the time, but hey, c’est la vie, right?</p>
<p>Right.</p>
<p>Bertholdt takes a deep inhale, releasing the breath and smiling. Yes, this is fine.</p>
<p>He nearly smashes the glass panes of his window when he opens his eyes and finds someone staring up at him from the alley below.</p>
<p>Oh well.</p>
<p>The fresh air was good while it lasted.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. The Art of Drawing Without an Eraser</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Reiner does something he comes to regret. Sort of. Pieck is best-girl, and Bertholdt is going against doing things that he’s told to, for once.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Soooooo I got spare time to write, and write I did. I was planning on posting weekly and until I get more chapters done, but I think this is okay... this is probably okay XDDDDD </p>
<p>Again, disclaimers—everything I know about what I’m writing about is rudimentary at best, except maybe for the psych stuff, and even then, I can’t claim to have firsthand experience with anything. Mind the tags, I’ll be adding more as I go :) here ya go!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>Reiner</b>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Come on, why are you so scared?” Porco had asked him three days ago. “It’s just a sketch of your building, isn’t it? It’s a nice gesture to welcome him back. Grow some balls, stop whining, and just do it.”</p>
<p>And so Reiner had rendered the sketch he’d made… and he’d written stuff...</p>
<p>And at that time, it had seemed like a reasonably good idea—a harmless idea...</p>
<p>And now? Now, Reiner knows he had basically broken the cardinal rule of his and Porco’s sort-of friendship: never take the other man’s advice—/especially/ when it comes to his social life. Now, he hasn’t seen hide nor hair—and most importantly, hasn’t heard a /single peep/ from one Bertholdt Hoover.</p>
<p>It’s all Porco’s fault.</p>
<p>Okay, maybe not all of it, and maybe it wasn’t the sketch that spooked the guy out. Maybe it was the fact that Reiner had taken liberties and delivered the man’s mail right to his door that had made said man withdraw even more, but… </p>
<p>Fuck.</p>
<p>“You look like you’re constipated,” Marcel sighs, casually wiping down their collection of kettlebells—as if any of them even needed wiping down with how empty the gym has been recently. So empty even /Annie/ didn’t come in. “That, or you’re having cramps. Are you having cramps?”</p>
<p>Reiner shakes his head, furiously creating harsh strokes on the surface of his paper, the cross-hatching appearing darker than he’d originally intended. The page is littered with half abandoned thumbnails by now, and it only serves to aggravate him even more.</p>
<p>“You know, you’re lucky Porco hasn’t come in. He’d never let you live this down,” Marcel tries again. “You’re like some horny preteen obsessing over a crush.”</p>
<p>Reiner throws his pencil onto the tabletop and groans. He detests the Galliard brothers sometimes, even if they’re just trying to show that they… care.</p>
<p>Sort of.</p>
<p>“Seriously, stop worrying about it. He’s just some guy who lives next to you. You don’t even know him.”</p>
<p>Technically true, but none of them have realized just how much Reiner has benefited from having Bertholdt as his neighbor. How much the little medleys and tunes have inspired him to make the best originals he’s ever pumped out since the history of ever. How much the man’s music has helped with the insomnia, however unintended it might’ve been. How much the piano man has made Reiner feel a little less alone—a little less /broken/—whenever the other starts playing at the ass-crack of dawn and gets him to get up and wash the gritty feeling from his eyes from another night of self-flagellation.</p>
<p>“I just don’t want him to think I’m some creep and have him report me to the landlord,” Reiner retorts weakly. It’s a half-assed excuse even to his own ears.</p>
<p>Thankfully, Marcel is not Porco, and doesn’t comment. Silence descends, and another hour and a half goes by before Marcel’s voice brings Reiner back to reality again.</p>
<p>“I think we can call it a day. Go home, Reiner. Get some rest. You look like you need it.” </p>
<p>Reiner nods blankly.</p>
<p>If only it were that easy.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <b>Bertholdt</b>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Explain to me again exactly why you haven’t moved yet?” Pieck asks, though judging from the exasperated tone, she isn’t really expecting an answer. “You can afford a bigger place now. A better one.”</p>
<p>Bertholdt leans his cheek on the palm of one hand, idly stirring his tea with the other. </p>
<p>“I told you, it’s just for practice. I’m not concerned about it at all,” Bertholdt tells her. It’s partially true. “I think it’s… interesting. Your place is just closer to the theater.”</p>
<p>“I can give you the address of at least five complexes around this area. Much nearer /and/ safer.”</p>
<p>Bert let’s his teaspoon tinkle on the edges of his cup first before setting it down, only to bring the small ceramic piece up to his lips to take a sip.</p>
<p>It’s all he can do to afford himself some time to respond to her, because the crux of the matter is this; he doesn’t really know why he insists on staying either. </p>
<p>Sure, rent is cheap, and moving would be a hassle, but not as much of a hassle as it is to actually be living there sometimes. The sub-par maintenance, the piss poor management, and the weird, maybe-meth-manufacturing person that lives in 303 being the most concerning points Pieck constantly brings up. Although, Bertholdt thinks they can safely eliminate the whole meth lab theory now. The drawing he’d found under his doorstep was pretty good, after all, and having an eccentric artist for a neighbor is much more believable, and leagues more reassuring, than the prospect of having a small scale drug distributor for one. Not that Pieck would believe one over the other in the slightest. </p>
<p>Bertholdt sets his drink down and shrugs.</p>
<p>“I’ll be out of your hair by tomorrow. I promise.”</p>
<p>“You know that’s not the point I was trying to get at, turtle.” </p>
<p>Bertholdt doesn’t meet her soft gaze, instead looking out the window. The facade of the theater across the street is casting a gloomy shadow over half their table, the dying light of dusk giving way to dark corners, only to be illuminated by flashes of neon signs flickering to life. </p>
<p>The streets are fairly deserted, couples and crowds settling into shops much like he and Pieck are doing. It’s a shame, Bertholdt could probably pull the topic off of himself had there been people to people-watch. </p>
<p>“You at least got that extra lock in place, right?”</p>
<p>“Yes, before I left for Marley,” Bertholdt assures, turning back to face her. “Nothing was out of place when I came back, you know.”</p>
<p>Pieck hums, “Doesn’t mean he didn’t snoop. He could still be intentionally gassing you until you pass out, then he’ll break in, steal your stuff, and then take your organs to sell to the black market.”</p>
<p>Bertholdt laughs softly. Sometimes he wonders if his anxiety is a result of Pieck’s wild imagination—they’d certainly been friends long enough that it could be a possibility. </p>
<p>“Oh, you’re laughing, are you?” Pieck narrows her eyes theatrically. “Okay, imagine this instead then… he breaks in, steals your stuff, and /draws dicks on your piano/.”</p>
<p>He gives her a scandalized look, completing it by raising a hand to his chest in mock horror.</p>
<p>“What a villain!”</p>
<p>“Nefarious!”</p>
<p>“Absolutely malicious,” Bertholdt nods, shielding his mouth with his hand as though contemplating. “I understand now.”</p>
<p>“Exactly,” Pieck says, the amusement evident in her voice. “Although… if he made it a /detailed/, /painted/ dick…”</p>
<p>“Oh yes, unless it’s that. If that’s the case, he’ll have done me a favor.”</p>
<p>They look at each other and burst out into a fit of giggles.</p>
<p>Being his oldest friend, Pieck had of course been the first person Bertholdt had revealed his sexuality to, not that she was entirely surprised when he’d stammered it out to her years ago, palms sweaty and shifting nervously over brunch pancakes. Somehow, it had always felt to him that she’d known before he’d told her—hell, maybe even before he himself knew. It wouldn’t be that much of a stretch to say Pieck probably had him pinned from the get-go.</p>
<p>Nothing ever seemed to get past her, and that hasn’t changed in the least.</p>
<p>His train of thought is cut off by the door to the tea place announcing another customer, and by how Pieck perks up in her chair and stops giggling.</p>
<p>“Someone you know?” Bertholdt asks, instantly sobering.</p>
<p>“Mmh, someone I’d like to know. Two cuties just came through.”</p>
<p>Bertholdt sighs, not even remotely tempted to cast a look over his shoulder, and even less so when he hears the scrape of a chair just behind his own. Pieck, though, flashes him a smile. He narrows his eyes at her in warning. To anyone else, the expression on her face would appear innocent, but just as she knows him too well, he also knows her.</p>
<p>“Pieck…”</p>
<p>“Turtle…”</p>
<p>“Why am I paying? You’re the one that’s being all mopey,” a different voice says, and Bertholdt can’t help but catch the rest of the words from the pair sitting behind him. “And don’t give me that ‘I’m broke’ spiel, you got paid double when I wasn’t in.”</p>
<p>“If you’ve got a problem with that, you should take it up with Marcel,” the stranger’s companion says.</p>
<p>Bertholdt hisses ‘stop it!’ under his breath when Pieck kicks his shins lightly, knowing he can’t—won’t retaliate. Although, he has to admit… that second voice does indeed send a shiver down his spine.</p>
<p>“Marcel can go eat a bag of dicks.”</p>
<p>Bertholdt doesn’t catch the mumbled response, but it must’ve been a funny one.</p>
<p>“Don’t let Annie hear you say that,” the first man says. “She might actually fire you.”</p>
<p>Their conversation is cut off by a waitress coming over to take down their orders. Pieck leans forward and smirks when Bertholdt meets her eyes, cradling her cheeks and batting her lashes at him sweetly.</p>
<p>“It’s rude to eavesdrop, Bertholdt,” she titters, and damn his body, Bertholdt can feel the flush on his cheeks. “Want me to work my magic and charm them?”</p>
<p>“/No/,” Bertholdt hisses. “You don’t need to do that. For me, or anyone.”</p>
<p>He doesn’t like it when Pieck suggests things like this, mostly because she uses her condition to score pity points for herself, or praise points for whoever. Bertholdt never wants anyone to exploit that—least of all himself. He doesn’t want Pieck to get hurt again.</p>
<p>The woman lets out a breathy laugh.</p>
<p>Oh. Damn.</p>
<p>Her wit and schemes annoy him sometimes.</p>
<p>“You’re a sweetheart, turtle,” Pieck soothes, then immediately adds, speaking as though she isn’t lusting after two complete strangers, “but I mean, they’re like discovering a new Rach variation. I’d like to score one myself.” </p>
<p>Bertholdt cringes, but feels his cheeks heat up again all the same. Pieck’s smile grows wolffish.</p>
<p>“Write them down as a fermata, I definitely would like to hold either one. Or /both/.”</p>
<p>“Stop.”</p>
<p>“I’m just saying, Bert, I’d let them borrow my tuner any day. They’re pretty sharp.”</p>
<p>“Pieck!”</p>
<p>“I could go on all day,” she giggles.</p>
<p>Bertholdt sorely hopes that they’re going unheard, but on the off chance someone is eavesdropping on their own conversation, he hopes they have no clue what Pieck is going on about. </p>
<p>“You’re incorrigible,” Bertholdt tells her once he’s sure his voice isn’t going to crack. “How are we even friends?”</p>
<p>“Because we’re both amazing and are meant to be besties until we die, of course. Isn’t that obvious? But I’ll let you off the hook this time. We don’t have the time to arrange anything anyways,” she sighs, reaching over to pat the back of his hand. “You should be heading back to practice in a few, right?”</p>
<p>Bertholdt checks the time on his watch and nods, taking his wallet out and settling their bill at the counter. When he gets back, Pieck already has her coat on.</p>
<p>“Could you drop me off at the center first? Zeke said he’d drive me home.”</p>
<p>“Of course,” he answers, leaning over and grabbing Pieck’s crutches for her before helping her up.</p>
<p>He does it wordlessly, and she thanks him without missing a beat, even when Bertholdt feels the weight of stares being directed their way. He rests his hand on the small of her back protectively. </p>
<p> “I’ll probably run late.”</p>
<p>“That’s fine,” Pieck looks back over towards their table. Or rather, the table still occupied by the strangers, and smiles before gesturing towards the door. “Sushi night?” </p>
<p>Bertholdt shrugs, “I’m fine with anything.”</p>
<p>As he holds the door open for her, he catches one last trickle of conversation before it shuts behind him.</p>
<p>“Damn, she is /fine/. Even you can see that, right, Reiner?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <b>Reiner</b>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I tend not to ogle strangers.”</p>
<p>“Come on, she was a looker.”</p>
<p>“Porco, I swear to god if this is another one of your weird sex fantasies…”</p>
<p>The sound of a chair creaking, and then a painful cuff lands on the side of Reiner’s head. It makes his penwork go wide, and he retaliates by grabbing a handful of fries and letting them thwack onto Porco’s face. The man grabs most from where they flop onto his lap, and stuffs them into his mouth anyways. </p>
<p>“You’re wasting my food, idiot.”</p>
<p>“You ruined my work, asshole.” </p>
<p>The other rolls his eyes, “Your fault for being such a dick. And it isn’t a kink, fuck you—she was pretty.”</p>
<p>Reiner grunts, the scrunch of his eyebrows not easing up in the least.</p>
<p>Porco rolls his eyes again, grabbing the paper Reiner had been scribbling on along with the pen, and proceeding to make an unflattering little doodle. Reiner is pretty sure the caricature is meant to be him.</p>
<p>“There, I fixed it. Now you can sell this off as a Galliard original.”</p>
<p>“You’re so delusional, it hurts,” Reiner drawls, taking the items back. “But, oh great master, I’m giving this to a friend. I’ll make sure to write a nice little note that says my retarded coworker drew this bit.”</p>
<p>“You mean you’re giving it to the guy you stalk,” Porco says, unfazed. </p>
<p>Reiner flushes slightly, the glare coming back full force. “What makes you say it’s for him? I have other friends.”</p>
<p>“Please, the only friends you have either work at the gym, or are clients there.”</p>
<p>“I don’t know what you’re talking about, I have plenty of friends. You actually aren’t one of them.” </p>
<p>Porco sneers before taking a huge bite out of his burger, and Reiner makes a face when the other man lets his tongue flick out to lick some ketchup from the corner of his mouth. For someone who always scolds him for not dressing up and looking his best—‘you’re going out in /that/, Braun?’, ‘ugh, it's embarrassing to be seen with you!’, ‘did you lift this out of a dumpster? I knew you were poor, but man…’, ‘Jesus, at least comb your hair’— Porco is a surprisingly messy eater. </p>
<p>“So, who’s it for?” Porco asks as soon as he’s washed the bite down with some shake. </p>
<p>“It’s for your mom.”</p>
<p>“Fine, keep your secrets.”</p>
<p>Reiner huffs out a genuine laugh and doesn’t give a single inch. He simply lets the other talk and whine until it’s time to head home. </p>
<p>Once he’s back, and once he’s on his floor, he rummages through his pack and unearths the quick ink drawing he’d made at the cafe. He writes a more personal note this time, and writes his name in the corner before slipping it under his neighbor’s door.</p>
<p>Reiner figures he’s got nothing left to lose, nothing that he hasn’t driven away already anyways. </p>
<p>Can’t get through life without making a couple of mistakes here and there.</p>
<p>Like drawing in ink.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - </p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <b>Bertholdt</b>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Bertholdt stares at the piece of paper he’d laid out on the fallboard of his piano, oscillating between impressed and concerned.</p>
<p>On one hand, he’s just gotten another wonderful piece of art. Done in ink this time too, and surprisingly one with no glaring mistakes, save for the harsh line that cuts through the bottom left portion—negligible, really—and an out of place doodle with the initials ‘P.G.’ on top of the little person’s head.</p>
<p>But on the other hand… it’s a drawing of the cafe he and Pieck had been to just a day ago. There’s a note on this one, too.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>‘I hope I didn’t overstep, let me know if this is weird and I’ll stop bothering you. Also, I wasn’t being sarcastic when I said I liked your playing in the last drawing. You’re very talented. I hope I get to hear it again soon. Stay safe out there! </p>
<p> </p>
<p>          - Reiner from 303’</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Their shared apartment building, Bertholdt could understand, but what are the chances of his neighbor—Reiner… what a strong name—knowing about the cafe?</p>
<p>Was this Reiner person even his neighbor in the first place, or an actual stranger just pretending to be him?</p>
<p>If it isn’t his neighbor, does that mean this stranger has been stalking him?</p>
<p>What did he mean by ‘stay safe out there’?</p>
<p>Was it a warning?</p>
<p>A threat? </p>
<p>Maybe Pieck was right to warn him about being cautious… but then…</p>
<p>Bertholdt opens up the piano chair and retrieves a stack of grey post-it notes, ripping off the topmost one before grabbing a pen.</p>
<p>There’s one way to find out, and if it looks bad… well, Bertholdt can bury his embarrassment and ask Pieck for those addresses.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -</p>
<p>
  <b>Reiner</b>
</p>
<p>He almost misses it, even though it’s taped directly at eye-level on his apartment door, but when he notices the grey sticky-note, his heart almost triples its speed. When he reads the things written, in an elegantly slanted scrawl, his face breaks out in a smile so wide Reiner is sure it makes him look manic. </p>
<p>Not that he cares if anyone can see him.</p>
<p>Not when—almost a little /too/ coincidentally, as if Bertholdt had /planned it/—the sound of scales ring out from the man’s own door.</p>
<p>He rereads the note, making sure not to crease the paper.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>‘I really liked your drawings, they’re really good. You’re quite talented yourself. I hope I don’t disturb you later when I practice :)</p>
<p>          - Bertholdt Hoover’</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Is it normal to gush about your own work? Like, I wrote this, yeah, but am still going “nekcnrtnMSMEMtt that is so FUCKING. CUTE.” .... if it isn’t normal, pls—am not a narcissist, just a sucker for Reibert TuT </p>
<p>Hope y’all enjoy! Already working on the next chapter/s :) stay tuned and lemme know what you think, and taking a leaf out of Reiner’s little note—stay safe out there!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Etudes in Blue and Grey</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>They exchange sticky notes. Nuff’ said.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Aaaaand here’s the next one! I am so sorry it took a while. I have no excuses XDDD but it’s longer than the first two, so yay? Have something to soothe you in the wake of episode 8?</p><p>Anyone here just want the manga to drop all the remaining chapters already coz the suspense is killing them? Yeah, me too. </p><p>But anyways, without further ado, charannnnn chapter three.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>Bertholdt</b>
</p><p> </p><p>He isn’t even at the top of the staircase yet when Bertholdt spies another note stuck to his door when he comes home. It makes him smile as soon as he sees the calm baby blue against the monotonous yellowish paint job. It must’ve been white, once upon a time. He muses to himself how he’d never noticed things like these before. How he hadn’t paid much attention to subtle details before Reiner’s artworks made their way into Bertholdt’s life.</p><p>Bertholdt shakes his head and pulls the note off, not bothering to read it until he’s shut the door behind him.</p><p> </p><p>
  <i>‘Hope your day went well—I’m beat, so just a tiny doodle tonight :) what was that piece you were playing before you left? It sounded intense.</i>
</p><p>
  <i></i>
</p><p>
  <i></i>
</p><p>
  <i>Reiner’</i>
</p><p> </p><p>There’s a haphazard drawing of a tire, and Bertholdt lets out a breath of amusement and tries to remember whether he was playing Rachmaninov or Chopin before he’d gone out.</p><p>They’d been exchanging the little notes for nearly a week and a half now. Between practice at the theater, practice at home, giving the odd piano lesson here and there, sitting on the edge of his seat for the audition results, and actual performances, they’ve been the highlight of Bertholdt’s day. He’s kept all of them, along with the artworks, and flips through them every time he starts to feel the creeping sense of loneliness hound his thoughts. </p><p>Ironically, Reiner is a breath of fresh air, despite being the very same person that Bertholdt had been grumbling about.</p><p>The man is delightfully witty—the snarky little comments and awful art puns have been akin to doses of sunshine and positivity that Bertholdt hadn’t even known he’d needed. It makes him feel slightly guilty that all he can do in return is play a couple of tunes—and even then, that gesture is more self-serving than it is an act of gratitude for the nuggets of joy that Reiner has given him. </p><p>Still, the man seems to appreciate it, so Bertholdt will have to take it at face value. </p><p>He steps into his kitchenette and adds the most recent note to the ever growing jar of notes and places it on the table, setting down his box of takeout as well before settling for his meal. It’s become something of a ritual, reading through some of them while he has dinner. They never fail to draw a laugh out of him. </p><p>
  <i>‘You wanna know why Van Gogh became a painter instead of a pianist? He just didn’t have the ear for it.’</i>
</p><p>
  <i></i>
</p><p>
  <i></i>
</p><p>
  <i>‘Thanks for the offer to teach me, but for the record, you won’t be able to pressure me into anything. I know how to draw a line.’</i>
</p><p>
  <i></i>
</p><p>
  <i>‘You know, I tried to join the military. But then I was kicked out because I was always drawing enemy fire. True story.’ </i>
</p><p>
  <i></i>
</p><p>
  <i></i>
</p><p>
  <i>‘I’ve been suffering from a mental block recently. It all started when I drew you that cube two days ago.’</i>
</p><p>And on it and on it went to show Bertholdt just how ridiculously /funny/ and thoughtful Reiner is—the first came with a caricature of Van Gogh without his ear, the second came with an attached drawing of a very straight line indeed, the third was accompanied by a small painting of a fire, and Bertholdt was thoroughly confused by the fully rendered drawing of a cube until the note came.</p><p>There are other, more personal notes too, and those ones are the ones that Bertholdt appreciates the most. The notes like the one he’d gotten today, after long hours of stuffy curtains and too-bright stage lights. The ones that just remind him that he’s got something of a friend that he can unload to, even if they haven’t exactly hung out in the truest sense. Their schedules have been just off enough that they hadn’t really caught each other, nor has either of them brought it up.</p><p>It’s comfortable, and Bert likes that there isn’t any pressure. </p><p>Bertholdt cleans up after himself and decides to write a response that he’ll post on his neighbor’s door tomorrow—while he still remembers the pieces he’d been playing.</p><p> </p><p>
  <i>‘It was either Prelude in G-Minor, Op. 23 No. 5 by Rachmaninov, or Chopin’s Etude Op. 10 No. 4. Have a listen to them if you’re interested. I hope you’re getting enough rest. Take a day off if you need to :)</i>
</p><p>
  <i></i>
</p><p>
  <i></i>
</p><p>
  <i>Bertholdt H.’</i>
</p><p> </p><p>The next day, when Bert leaves home at around nine in the morning, there are two notes on his door already, and something different. The first note is just a quick greeting.</p><p> </p><p>
  <i>‘Morning! Went for an early jog :) I hope I didn’t wake you. Walls are kinda thin.</i>
</p><p>
  <i></i>
</p><p>
  <i></i>
</p><p>
  <i>R’</i>
</p><p> </p><p>The second is a bit longer, the tone of it more whiny, a message Bertholdt imagines was written with a pout.</p><p> </p><p>
  <i>‘Aw, you still aren’t up and playing. And I need to leave for work. I didn’t get to hear my morning tunes :( make it up to me later? I want a full concerto.</i>
</p><p>
  <i></i>
</p><p>
  <i></i>
</p><p>
  <i>Your Needy Neighbor’</i>
</p><p> </p><p>The last thing stuck onto the surface is a little coffee stamp collection, all the slots already filled with purchases. There’s a short message on the back of that one too.</p><p> </p><p>
  <i>‘Figured you’d need the boost :) don’t know if you’re familiar with Trost, but it’s the cafe just off Stohess District, before the Central Building. Enjoy!’</i>
</p><p> </p><p>Bertholdt shakes his head, feeling a touch of heat warm his face, fondness for a man he’s never even met blooming inside his chest. </p><p>As if he doesn’t know the place.</p><p>He takes the few couple of steps to get to Reiner’s door, and places his own note on it, index pressing down on the top where the adhesive is to make sure it attaches more securely. A small pang of guilt hits him as he stares and rereads his response, making him feel undeserving of the kindness the man has shown him.</p><p>Even if Reiner is just being friendly, the fact of the matter is that he’s given Bertholdt something to look forward to that doesn’t make his palms sweat and his heart race.</p><p>Something good.</p><p>It makes him just the slightest bit nervous, because good things usually don’t last, and it’s a dangerous thing, getting attached. </p><p>Bertholdt sucks his lower lip between his teeth, taking a pen out and adding a bit more substance to his response, even if the letters are looking a bit too crammed and making him feel uncomfortable.</p><p> </p><p>
  <i>‘PS. Do you have any song requests? I’ll gladly play them for you.’</i>
</p><p> </p><p>There. </p><p>If Reiner gives him a list of songs, then maybe Bertholdt can get rid of the guilt by playing them for the man. Maybe shed the growing fondness—it’s probably just stemming from the fact that he hasn’t paid the man back, right? If not… well, Bertholdt is sure he’ll think of something before he gets too close.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Reiner</b>
</p><p> </p><p>The smell of coffee and pastry, as well as the warm light and relaxed ambiance of the cafe Reiner is at is coalescing into the perfect atmosphere that would send tension out of anyone who comes to visit. There’s a buzz of indistinct conversations, easy laughter and smiles from the staff. Reiner even has a warm mug of chamomile in his hands—something he’d been recommended to soothe his nerves.</p><p>It doesn’t do a single thing, and his leg doesn’t let up with the incessant bouncing.</p><p>Thankfully, he’s alone today.</p><p>No Porco to harass him. No Marcel to make sweeping declarations and give unsolicited advice. No Annie to glare at him for actually taking his allotted break time… Reiner supposes he should count small blessings. </p><p>Still, he was hoping to see Bertholdt today for that free drink. He even took the table right by the door, where the man would have had to pass him.</p><p>He hates that he’s resorted to this—it’s basically what Porco had been accusing him of all this time, and while Reiner means to meet Bertholdt and actually approach him here if he came, it still borders on outright /stalking/. Reiner gulps down on a mouthful of tea, it’s gone tepid now and leaves a cloying feeling in his mouth, and checks his phone to see that his break is almost over.</p><p>So much for half-baked plans… he should just go ahead and knock on Bertholdt’s door or forget about starting anything. He’d even save himself the shame of a public rejection that way.</p><p>This was a terrible idea.</p><p>Horrible.</p><p>Stupid.</p><p>Reiner presses the meat of his palms into his eyes, mouth twisting into a grimace.</p><p>What the hell is wrong with him?</p><p>What is his fucking problem?</p><p>Why can’t he just be /normal/ for once?</p><p>He digs his fingers into his scalp when the echo of a different voice starts up in the back of his head. Reiner increases the pressure until his temples start to protest at the migraine he’s inducing, but at least it makes the voice go away.</p><p>It grounds him, pain.</p><p>He stays hunched over his table for a couple of minutes more before pulling himself together and heading back to the gym.</p><p>His two-thirty clients immediately spring up when he gets in, and the glare Annie gives him promises pain, but Reiner’s mood is sour enough that it doesn’t faze him. Mikasa, Armin, Marco, and Sasha are already working up a sweat, practicing forms in pairs while Annie bites out instructions.</p><p>“Finally, we’ve been here for twenty minutes,” Eren groans, the loudest of the bunch.</p><p>“Yeah, Reiner, what the hell?” Jean follows up, sounding equally bratty.</p><p>Before Connie can even get a word in, Reiner turns towards the three of them. The glare he’s giving must be murderous, because they all clam up after. </p><p>“Hey,” Eren says once he recovers himself, “what’s with the look? You’re the one that’s running late, coach.”</p><p>“You’ve been here twenty minutes and you didn’t do shit?” Reiner growls, dropping his bag unceremoniously on the floor just off of the mat. “How long have you three been coming here? And you still need your hand held? Seriously, not even the warm-ups?”</p><p>Reiner knows it isn’t fair to take it out on the guys who are basically paying him for his service. It’s not fair that he’s turning this around and getting mad at them when he’s the one that’s technically in the wrong. But… but he’s sleep deprived, and anxious, and a mess of confused and conflicting emotions.</p><p>“That’s—“ Jean starts to say, but Reiner doesn’t let him finish.</p><p>“Get started, you idiots. We’re upping your reps, and you better finish all of them!” Reiner yells, then points at Eren. “You. In the ring. Since you’re so eager.” </p><p>Eren grins, but Reiner can see the slight fear in his eyes. “You’re way too intense, Reiner.”</p><p>Reiner grunts, shoving a mouth guard snugly over his teeth. </p><p>“I’ll show you,” Eren smirks, “I haven’t been slacking off.”</p><p> </p><p>- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -</p><p>“Fuck you, man, I don’t think I’ll be able to get home,” Connie huffs from where he’s sprawled on the mat, limbs akimbo. “What gives?”</p><p>“Come on, it wasn’t that bad,” Eren answers, but he’s collapsed right beside Springer.</p><p>Reiner just steps over them both to set things to right—he doesn’t miss the glare Mikasa shoots at him when he passes her on his way to the weight racks. Eren, though, is as loud as ever despite the slight bruising on his cheek from where Reiner had hit a bit /too/ hard.</p><p>“But you gotta admit, I almost beat you there.”</p><p>“Eren, you probably have a concussion,” Jean snarks, “you weren’t even close to getting Reiner to budge.”</p><p>“Ooh, concussion? Little Jean-boy is using big words now, huh? You sure you know what that means?” Eren shoots back.</p><p>“I’m not /Connie/! Come here and I’ll /show/ you what it means you—“</p><p>They start a scuffle right there on the mat, uncaring about the batch of people that are coming in for the next session.</p><p>Reiner sighs internally, turning back to the group of immature apes—how the hell are they all just a couple of years younger than him?</p><p>“Quit it, you two,” he scolds, to the effect of absolutely nothing.</p><p>Mikasa breaks the fight by virtue of pulling Eren into a headlock. Jean sputters something about how unfair that is—though whether he means being that close to the woman, or because he wasn’t able to retaliate for the smack Eren had landed on him, Reiner doesn’t know.</p><p>“Idiots…” Reiner grumbles, gesturing for the next clients to start their warmups.</p><p>Armin gives Reiner a sheepish smile.</p><p>Connie complains to Marco about being ignored.</p><p>Sasha just asks where they’re all going for their post work-out binge. </p><p>Reiner rolls his eyes at the fiasco and finishes setting med-balls back into their shelves. He smiles to himself privately though, grateful for the noise and the activity. At least they’ve got people coming in again after a slow week.</p><p>The office door slams shut, startling all of them and prompting a look from everyone. Porco struts over with a displeased look.</p><p>“Lady-boss wants you, I’m taking over your class,” Porco spits, rolling his shoulders. “I’d hurry up if I were you. She /did not/ look happy.”</p><p>Reiner winces. </p><p>Right.</p><p>“Alright, thanks. I’ll see you all on Monday,” he calls to Eren and his gang before heading in. </p><p>He can hear their snickers and their not-so-subtle ‘oooohhhh shits’ before he closes the door. </p><p>Oh shit, indeed, too. To anyone else, Annie looks just as stern as she usually does, but to the people who know her, she’s anything but. She’s holding herself more stiffly, even though she’s leaned back against the only table in the cramped space.</p><p>“Where were you?”</p><p>Ah.</p><p>“Cafe. I lost track of time.”</p><p>“Bullshit,” Annie immediately calls, pulling herself to her feet and walking towards him. Reiner is reminded of all those nature documentaries he used to watch about big cats. She stops right in front of him, managing to make Reiner feel small despite her being a good foot shorter as she pokes his chest, fingers digging roughly into his skin. “What’s happening?”</p><p>Reiner is the first to look away.</p><p>It’s unusual for her to even want to be this close, and it makes Reiner feel off-footed.</p><p>“Nothing.”</p><p>“Reiner, I don’t want to be the one to stick you back into rehab. If something’s up, I don’t want to get dragged back into—“</p><p>“/Nothing/ is happening. I’m sober. Fuck, can’t a guy just lose track of time?” Reiner bites out, an old bitter feeling sending his spine ramrod straight as he glares back at her.</p><p>“Not when it’s you.”</p><p>“I wasn’t drinking, for god’s sake. What? You want a breathalyzer test or something?”</p><p>Annie says nothing, but she does take a step back. Reiner knows it isn’t because he’d raised his voice, though, nor is it because she’s intimidated. If anything, Annie would be able to beat the living shit out of him any day.</p><p>“You’re never late,” she says stoically.</p><p>“Stuff has been happening.”</p><p>Silence.</p><p>The woman shakes her head, crossing her arms in front of her chest again. She’s never really been the one to do the whole comforting thing, and she’s never been the one to press the matter, either—that had always been Marcel, the ever dutiful big brother—so when she looks back at him with a small spark of /worry/ in her eyes, Reiner feels guilt almost instantly.</p><p>“I’m clean. I promise, I’m clean. I just…” Reiner rubs the back of his neck, deflating. “You know how it is.”</p><p>“Do Marcel or Porco know?”</p><p>Reiner shrugs.</p><p>Do they know? Reiner has no idea.</p><p>With Porco, he can never tell whether the other man is poking at Reiner just for the fun of it, or doing it as his own way of pulling Reiner’s head out of a pessimistic slump, and with Marcel…<br/>
well, the whole protective older sibling spiel is just how Marcel is wired.</p><p>Annie brings him out of his thoughts, “You should go home. You look like a train wreck.”</p><p>Reiner snorts, “So everyone’s been telling me lately.”</p><p>“Maybe you should listen and do something about it then,” she waves him out, turning to walk back towards the desk where she picks up her phone, no doubt firing off a message to the older Galliard.</p><p>All Reiner can do is accept the offer—it’s not like she lets him off early every day—and pray the three of them don’t plan an intervention for him or something in his absence. He mumbles a quiet ‘thanks’ before leaving the office. Reiner tosses a wave over his shoulder after he picks up his bag and heads for the door, Porco’s ‘I hope you step on shit, loser!’ making him roll his eyes.</p><p>He resists the urge to check Trost and heads straight home, a small quirk of his lips when he spies the message left on his door. He writes a short reply even though his entire body is starting to feel like lead, on the verge of collapse.</p><p>It would be rude to leave Bertholdt hanging.</p><p>When that is done, Reiner shuffles into his apartment and sets up his art station, pulling out his materials; brushes, paint tubes, pencils, a newly stretched canvas, his turps and palettes, and sits on the rickety barstool he’d pawned off of a garage sale.</p><p>Time moves at an agonizingly slow pace, and all Reiner can do is stare blankly at the coarse texture until the sun goes down and the white surface is obscured by shadows. </p><p> </p><p>- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Bertholdt</b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <i>‘Something that would match the weather the past couple of weeks? But nothing too depressing.</i>
</p><p>
  <i></i>
</p><p>
  <i></i>
</p><p>
  <i>Reiner’</i>
</p><p> </p><p>Bertholdt worries at the corner of the note, wondering how and why it makes his stomach churn. It’s written with a heavier hand, enough to score the paper, and no doodle today, not even another tire to go with the one yesterday. </p><p>He considers calling Pieck to ask for her advice on all this, but he doesn’t want to seem completely out of his depth.</p><p>Bertholdt can handle other relationships. </p><p>He can.</p><p>He sits down at his piano and plays the first thing that comes to mind.</p><p> </p><p>- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Reiner</b>
</p><p> </p><p>Reiner is staring at the piece that’s been sitting on his easel for two days now, once again debating whether he should give it to Bertholdt or not.</p><p>He hadn’t left his apartment once since that stilted chat with Annie, not even the short distance it would take to post something on Bertholdt’s door. He’d gotten exactly nine more notes from the man, the last one being an apology for being a nuisance, and it makes Reiner feel terrible—more so than the coughing that’s developed—Reiner can take physical pain like a champ. Still, it’s not to say he’s stopped thinking about his lovely pianist neighbor. </p><p>Quite the opposite, even, if his inner debate right now has anything to say about it. </p><p>Reiner shakes his head and wonders how he’d gotten so pathetic, or if he really has been this pathetic from the start.</p><p>Still… the quick doodles and silly caricatures were one thing to give the man, but a fully finished piece?</p><p>Made with bits of his heart and soul?</p><p>After basically giving the man radio silence for the past two days?</p><p>Depending on the response, Reiner would either be propelled out of the tar pit of misery he’s mired in, or he’d grab a shovel and dig himself even deeper into it.</p><p>He gets up on shaky legs and heads for his bathroom, looking at himself in the mirror and wincing at what he sees. His pallor is sickly, and the bags under his eyes do nothing to help. There’s a look to his hair that screams the fact that he hasn’t taken a bath for three days now, and the scruff of stubble makes it even worse. All that coupled with the tank top he’s got on, sweat stains on the collar and all, makes him look like a hot mess. </p><p>Like a drunk.</p><p>Exactly like his—</p><p>Reiner bends over the sink and splashes water onto his face, scrubbing hard enough to make everything ache. It’s no wonder Porco keeps nagging him all the time—he wouldn’t want to be seen out with himself either.</p><p>A coughing fit has his entire body shaking, but it’s what finally gets the thoughts of vanity out of his head and makes him decide to at least take a shower. Once his head is a bit clearer after the good washing down, he puts on some relatively nicer clothes for the first time since he’d left and takes the canvas off of his easel. He grabs the stack of sticky notes he’s got on the table by his door too, and steps out of his place.</p><p>He hadn’t even noticed how stuffy his apartment had felt until he’s in the hallway—not to mention the smell.</p><p>Fuck.</p><p>Maybe the gloomy mood was partly because of the turps.</p><p>Or something.</p><p>Reiner shakes his head and hurries over to Bertholdt’s door, leaning the piece he’d done on it before taking out the stack of sticky notes.</p><p>What would he even say?</p><p>Hey, 302, it’s 303, I’m really bad at this whole approaching people unless they approach me first kind thing?</p><p>Hey, Bertholdt, it’s me Reiner, your neighbor that’s been creepily obsessed with you, I’m sorry for being a dick and not writing back sooner?</p><p>Hey, piano man, that song you played made me pull my head out of my ass, here’s a painting I made as a result?</p><p>Reiner huffs and runs a hand through his hair, his fingers coming back slightly damp. He stares at the thing he’d painted and second-thoughts fill his head again. He should turn back, while he still has some dignity left.</p><p>A clear of a throat behind him sends the thoughts flying.</p><p>“Reiner?”</p><p> </p><p>- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - </p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Bertholdt</b>
</p><p> </p><p>The blonde at his door goes still. Berth mentally kicks himself, but there’s no going back now.</p><p>The moment he’d seen the man standing there, Bertholdt knew he wouldn’t be letting the opportunity pass. He’d missed talking (writing) to the man—enough that he was debating actually knocking on Reiner’s door. Now he doesn’t need to, but it didn’t really occur to him until now that Reiner might not share his… enthusiasm. </p><p>Reiner finally turns around to face him, and Bertholdt feels his mouth drop open a little bit. For some reason, he had imagined his neighbor to be someone like himself—lithely built, no… lanky would be a better word… gangly, all awkward and not… not…</p><p>“Hey. Hi, Bertholdt,” Reiner greets, and his voice, though slightly raspy, rings familiar in Bertholdt’s head, but he can’t place where from. “Did I say your name right?”</p><p>Bert nods, and they both fall into awkward silence as they stare and take each other in.</p><p>“I uh… went to Trost to claim the free drink,” Bertholdt says to fill the emptiness when it stretches on for too long, fidgeting with the cup in his hands. “Thank you, by the way.”</p><p>Reiner nods, his hair glistening and looking a bit damp. Bertholdt actively has to keep himself from licking his lips, lest he make the other man feel uncomfortable. Reiner rubs the back of his neck, looking as self-conscious as Bertholdt feels. Somehow though, he knows that Reiner’s own nervousness doesn’t stem from social ineptitude like Bertholdt’s does.</p><p>“You’re welcome. I hope it’s to your taste.”</p><p>“It is,” Bertholdt answers almost too quickly. “I mean… I know the place. I go there a lot.”</p><p>Reiner’s lip twitches up into a grin, though it doesn’t quite meet his tawny eyes. “Small world, huh? It’s kind of weird we haven’t run into each other there. Listen, I uh—I’m sorry for not… you know. I was a bit under the weather.”</p><p>Bertholdt feels something unclench in his chest, a weight lifting from his shoulders. He smiles at the other man and casts his eyes down as he tells Reiner it’s alright. The relief that’s swirling inside of him morphs into surprise when he sees the artwork leaned on his door.</p><p>It’s a painting of a grand piano, and to Bertholdt’s eye, it is gorgeous—raw, moody, and delightfully unrestrained.</p><p>“Is that for me?” Bertholdt asks, nerves forgotten for the moment, voice tinged with awe. </p><p>“Yeah. I really liked the song you played for me.”</p><p>Bertholdt tries to remember which one it had been, then wonders exactly when all the songs he’d been playing became songs /for Reiner/ to hear. His transfixed stare is interrupted by the man clearing his throat, only to end up nearly coughing his lungs out, needing to turn away from Bertholdt.</p><p>The angle with which Reiner is turned and hunched makes the line of his shoulders look broad and muscular, and it takes everything in Bertholdt not to reach out and lay a hand on it. It makes him kick himself mentally again—for the umpteenth time, it seems.</p><p>Why is he being so /weird/?</p><p>Or rather… /weirder/.</p><p>Well.</p><p>He knows why, he just doesn’t want to acknowledge it. </p><p>His palms start sweating. </p><p>“Are you alright?”</p><p>“Yeah, I’m good,” Reiner says, clearing his throat yet again. “It’s probably the turpentine.”</p><p>“Turpentine? Is that what the awful smell is?”</p><p>At the query, Reiner’s face falls. The expression seems to make the man’s brows less severe, and it’s only then that Bertholdt notices the little details—the dark shadows under Reiner’s eyes, the overall pale complexion. He notices the tired slump of the man’s shoulders too.</p><p>The worry returns, but this time it isn’t caused by a multitude of what-if scenarios his head conjures.</p><p>Bertholdt imagines at his best, Reiner would look a lot different. Sun-kissed skin, hair that turns goldspun in the right light, tawny eyes glinting like pure, poured honey… </p><p>“You can smell it at your place?” Reiner asks, losing the little spark of liveliness by the second. “I am so sorry, I didn’t realize. I thought—“</p><p>“It’s okay,” Bertholdt rushes to reassure, taking a step towards the man unconsciously. “I really don’t—“</p><p>Bertholdt holds his tongue when Reiner starts coughing again, eyes watering in an effort to quell it. The worry he’d felt blooms into something more—something that sounds like Pieck’s voice in his head.</p><p>Isn’t breathing fumes from turpentine really bad?</p><p>And if Bertholdt can catch whiffs of it, then it must be unbearable in Reiner’s own apartment.</p><p>Should he call a poison hotline or something?</p><p>“Sorry,” Reiner gasps, “I’m sorry, this isn’t how I wanted us to meet. I—“</p><p>“You wanted us to—“ Bert doesn’t get a chance to continue as Reiner, again, starts coughing. His own brows furrow. “Are you sure you’re okay?”</p><p>A glance down the hall shows Bert that Reiner’s apartment door is still open, and—he takes a deep inhale—yup, that is definitely the harsh smell of turpentine. Bertholdt shakes his head and offers the man his cup of chai, leaning down to grab the painting and fish for his keys. Once he’s got it in the lock, he looks back at Reiner.</p><p>“You should come inside while we let your apartment air out.”</p><p>As soon as the words leave his mouth, Bertholdt flushes red, embarrassed at how demanding he sounded. Reiner, at first, looks bemused, but then an endearing dusting of red rushes to the man’s cheeks too. </p><p>“I really wouldn’t want to be a bother, and it’s so early, you might want to have some time for yourself or something.” </p><p>Bertholdt shakes his head, still a little embarrassed, “I don’t mind. Or we could head to Trost and grab breakfast? My place kind of uh… well, it’s… messy.”</p><p>“I… what?” Reiner looks absolutely stupefied. </p><p>They’re like two idiots trying to outdo one another, and it makes Bertholdt let out a soft chuckle. Maybe this might actually work out. </p><p>“Breakfast? As thanks… for this,” Bert gestures towards the painting. “It’s really beautiful. I love it. And I mean… I have been meaning to actually hang out with you too, so…”</p><p>Reiner shakes himself out of his stupor and /smirks/, “I knew my charming personality was working.”</p><p>And good god, is the man /flirting/ or…? </p><p>Bertholdt swears he can feel the blood rush to the tips of his ears.</p><p>“Would it be okay if I changed first? I sort of grabbed the first thing I could get my hands on,” Reiner chuckles.</p><p>“Mhm. I need to get this inside anyways,” Bertholdt mumbles, opening his door and nearly tripping over his own two feet as he rushes over the threshold. “You can have the tea. It’s chai. Good for coughs, I think.”</p><p>Reiner sighs, “You’re a god. I’ll get you another later. Meet out here in ten?”</p><p>“Yeah, sure.”</p><p>“Alright, it’s a date then.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Also, if anyone is interested in the pieces Reiner has heard from Bertholdt, here’s a list of the specific ones in this chapter :))</p><p>• Rachmaninov Op. 23, No. 5 performed by Olga Scheps<br/>• Chopin Etude 10, No. 4 performed by Rousseau<br/>• La Valse d’Améie by Yann Tiersen, performed by Rousseau</p><p>Aaaand the one he listened/fell asleep to in the first chappy was<br/>• Nuvole Bianche by Ludovico Einaudi, performed by Rousseau</p><p>Aaaaaaannndddd if anyone wants to see the thing Reiner made for Bert, it’s this—</p><p>https://secure.img.wfrcdn.com/lf/204/hash/36987/22527434/1/Concerto%2BCanvas%2BPrint.jpg</p><p>As always, none of these are mine ofc XDDDD otherwise I wouldn’t be writing fanfic lolololol. Ciao 💀😂🖤</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Late Night Talks and Breakfast Walks</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Oh hey first date—sorta. And silly texts. And Pieck. And a small glimpse into the daily life of one Bertholdt Hoover.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Late update, but that latest manga chapter killed me. It was beautiful to see my babies again and that one panel—THAT ONE PANEL YKNOW??? </p>
<p>Crying? Yeah, me too.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>Reiner </b>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Trost is true to its name, this time around, offering Reiner a small sense of calm and comfort over the excitement about being here with Bertholdt. He wonders how it came to be that they’ve managed to exhaust introductory questions during the short walk over, which now leaves both of them a little bit awkward as they wait for their orders.</p>
<p>Reiner clears his throat, suppressing a wince at the scratchiness he can feel, and gives Bertholdt a small smile when the man raises his eyes—a very intriguing olive green in the muted lights. </p>
<p>“I’m really sorry again,” he repeats, “about the smell. I didn’t expect it to reach your place. I already keep my turps tucked in the utility closet.” </p>
<p>Bertholdt shakes his head and warms his hands on his mug of tea, fingers, slender and elegant, lightly curled over the handle and the print. They seem like they were made to play the piano. Or that’s how Reiner sees them anyways. He can picture it clearer in his head now.</p>
<p>“It’s okay. I mean, I probably kept you up for the longest time.”</p>
<p>Reiner snorts, “Nah. The opposite, really, I actually look forward to hearing you play. Helps me get to sleep. Not to say that it’s /boring/ or anything—just… really soothing.”</p>
<p>The smile Bertholdt rewards him with tells Reiner that he’d said the right thing, and the tinge of pink on the other man’s cheeks tell him that Bertholdt probably isn’t used to receiving compliments. It truly baffles Reiner, considering the pieces Bertholdt plays are ones that are regarded to be extremely difficult.</p>
<p>What? He’d done his research. Or at least, he’d looked up the songs that Bertholdt had mentioned. </p>
<p>“Even the really intense ones?” Bertholdt asks a bit cheekily, and Reiner can’t help but grin.</p>
<p>“Especially the intense ones—the louder they are, the easier it is for me to nod off.”</p>
<p>Bertholdt lets out a breathy laugh that immediately has Reiner’s heart melting, “You’re an odd man, Reiner.” </p>
<p>Reiner had noticed during their walk that the man apologized for pretty much everything, so before Bertholdt can try to backtrack about the comment and do exactly that, he shrugs.</p>
<p>“You know what they say about us artists. We’re pretty sketchy.” </p>
<p>Bertholdt’s eyes widen just a fraction, mouth opening and closing, probably in an effort to think of a response. Reiner beats him to the punch again and persists, leaning forward conspiratorially.</p>
<p>“And we’re hella shady, too. Don’t let the Renaissance painters trick you into thinking we’re classy people—we’re not beneath framing things a particular way.”</p>
<p>Bertholdt breaks into a fit of chuckles, shielding his face with his hand in embarrassment. Reiner grins again, the fog lifting from his mind at the sound. For the first time in a long time, he actually starts to feel a genuine spark of pride at himself. The other man collects himself and takes a sip of tea. </p>
<p>“That was terrible,” Bertholdt laughs. “And here I thought I could trust you.”</p>
<p>“They are terrible, but all artists are frauds, I stole those puns and gave my own twist,” Reiner admits, the grin stretching further on his mouth.</p>
<p>It’s a foreign expression to be wearing—he can’t remember the last time he’d been like this. He can’t remember the last time he’d been this eager to socialize was—or the last time he cared about what anybody thought of him. Reiner shakes the thought from his head, and his grin eases into a gentle smile when Bertholdt takes a cautious sip of tea again. Reiner takes one of own with his plain black coffee. </p>
<p>The silence is no longer as stilted and awkward.</p>
<p>“So…” Bertholdt begins, twirling his index over the rim of his mug, “Reiner Braun. Sounds like a very German name.”</p>
<p>Reiner nods, “I was born there, but we left when I was young. Five or something. I don’t remember much of it.”</p>
<p>“Oh,” Bertholdt hums, sounding almost disappointed. “My grandparents were originally from there. I was born and raised here though.”</p>
<p>“Imagine that. Two men with German descent, in a German named cafe.”</p>
<p>“Trost is German?”</p>
<p>Reiner is a bit sheepish as he explains, “I got curious about it. And I mean… someone I know owns the place so… yeah. It means comfort. Consolation. Solace.”</p>
<p>Bertholdt’s lips quirk up into that shy smile again, and Reiner hopes the other man doesn’t make note of his wandering eyes.</p>
<p>“It’s fitting, isn’t it? </p>
<p>Before Reiner can voice his agreement, a waitress comes over with their orders. A breakfast special for himself, and a stack of pancakes for Bertholdt. The waitress leaves and Reiner gives Bertholdt a grin, waving for the man to start. It almost seems surreal that this is the first thing that they’re doing vis-a-vis. </p>
<p>A couple of bites into their meals, and Bertholdt speaks up, as though the thought only occurred to him then.</p>
<p>“You don’t do art full time?”</p>
<p>Reiner sighs, “I want to, god knows I want to. I can’t yet, though. Maybe not ever. Like I mentioned, I work as a gym instructor. Sometimes I take other odd construction jobs here and there, too.”</p>
<p>Bertholdt’s eyes flick over him, then back up to Reiner’s own eyes. “Explains all the bulk.”</p>
<p>The man mumbles an apology and flushes red, ducking his head down to eat a bite of his pancakes. Reiner smirks. He isn’t a conceited man, but knowing he has the physique, and knowing that other people /notice/ his physique gives his ego a good stroke every now and again. It makes it even doubly rewarding, coming from Bertholdt, considering how Reiner had been /losing/ a ton of weight recently. </p>
<p>He doesn’t want to embarrass the man, though, so Reiner waves it off and continues, “What about you? You mentioned quitting the theater.”</p>
<p>Bertholdt cuts his pancakes into little triangles, mopping up the syrup on his plate with them as he answers, eyes flicking outside the window to watch the streets. “I do accompaniments for plays and classes, mostly. Pay per performance kind of thing, but it’s sporadic income. I get by through tutoring, really. But I’m ah, actually going to start a new job soon. Long term, great benefits. Orchestra pianist.”</p>
<p>Reiner leans forward. “Congratulations. I hope I can get to hear you play sometime. I mean, I hear you play back at home, but it’s different when it’s on the stage, isn’t it?”</p>
<p>Bertholdt nods, though he doesn’t look like he’s enthused by the idea.</p>
<p>“You don’t seem too keen on that,” Reiner prompts.</p>
<p>“Just nervous, I guess. I uh… believe it or not, I have a bit of er… stage fright, if you could call it that.”</p>
<p>Reiner keeps his mouth shut for a few moments, looking at Bertholdt more openly when the man shoves food into his mouth. The other man might be taller than Reiner by a considerable few inches, but he thinks he can see exactly what Bertholdt means. He holds himself as though trying to make his presence as unnoticeable as possible, and even his voice is quiet, his words always soft spoken. There’s also the fidgeting, fingers that are ceaselessly doing this or that—Reiner wonders if it’s a habit because of Bertholdt’s being a pianist.</p>
<p>“I think you play really well. You’ll be great,” Reiner finally offers, quickly downing a couple of gulps of coffee when his throat starts to itch. “I’ve loved every piece I’ve heard from you so far.”</p>
<p>Bertholdt flushes again, but he’s smiling bashfully and shaking his head at the comment.</p>
<p>So easily flustered.</p>
<p>It’s adorable.</p>
<p>“Thanks. Like you said, it’s different on stage, though. I mean… just… lots of people watching. Listening. Judging. And not by accident.”</p>
<p>Reiner pouts, “I don’t listen to you just because we’re neighbors.”</p>
<p>“I didn’t… I just mean that they’re paying for me to play for them. That’s intimidating, don’t you think?”</p>
<p>Reiner drops the pout, “I guess I can understand that. I’m always nervous about commission pieces, but you know, practice and all that. Shit’s underrated and not stressed enough when it comes to our line of work, huh? They think you just go out there and make art spontaneously without agonizing over it for days.”</p>
<p>“Weeks,” Bertholdt agrees, relief clear on his face, “everyone thinks it’s all about natural talent and prodigies.”</p>
<p>“Don’t I know it,” Reiner snorts. </p>
<p>Conversation flows easily between the two of them, and it’s almost as though Reiner has known Bertholdt for years and years and years, and all too soon, they’ve finished their meal already. Reiner’s facial muscles hurt from the near constant grinning, and his throat feels thoroughly raw and used—/do not/ think about that particular observation in a sexual manner, Reiner!</p>
<p>“So… do you have anywhere to be for the rest of the day?” Reiner asks as he pulls out his wallet, they’ve decided to split the bill even though he’d wanted to pay.</p>
<p>“Oh. Uh, I gotta go play for a ballet class, and then tutoring in the afternoon,” the other man answers. </p>
<p>Reiner watches as Bertholdt interlocks his fingers and starts rubbing circles in the palm of one hand with the opposite thumb, eyes looking anywhere but at him. He’s about to ask what the matter is when Bertholdt suddenly blurts out.</p>
<p>“Thank you for this. I… well, I… it was—good,” Bertholdt sucks his lips in and bites them. Reiner feels heat pulse through his stomach. “This was good. You still should’ve let me pay, though.”</p>
<p>Reiner snorts, giving the man a lopsided smile, “I told you, I won’t succumb to pressure.”</p>
<p>“Bet you drew that with a ruler.”</p>
<p>“How dare you,” Reiner grunts, then chuckles when Bertholdt rolls his eyes. His beautiful, olive-green eyes that Reiner could probably wax poetic about for days—or maybe draw again and again, in an infinite number of ways, and still never get them to be quite as captivating as how they are in person. He could tell Bertholdt how pretty his eyes are right now, but because he’s Reiner, what he says instead is, “I used a t-square.”</p>
<p>Bertholdt gives that breathy laugh of his again, and Reiner is smitten.</p>
<p>“Well, I shouldn’t keep you,” Reiner tells the man, when they step out of the cafe after paying, not wanting to spoil their first meeting by overdoing it. “I could walk with you there?”</p>
<p>Bertholdt seems to snap out of a daze, and Reiner can’t quite name the expression on the man’s face. </p>
<p>“It’s in the other direction,” Bertholdt finally says, his smile small and rueful. “Thank you for the offer.” </p>
<p>Before Reiner can say anything else, Bertholdt and his giant frame turn, tossing a wave over his shoulders as he says, “I’ll see you later.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - </p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <b> Bertholdt </b>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>His day, following the unexpected, but pleasantly enjoyable breakfast, is spent in anxiety. </p>
<p>It’s ridiculous how taciturn Bertholdt’s mind is. When he doesn’t have something to occupy it with, even the happiest thoughts tumble and twist, warping at the edges and getting so distorted and misshapen that there’s only a scant amount of truth to them, overwhelmed by worries instead of actual facts. It’s kind of like shoving your earphones into your pockets—one way or another, they’re going to come out a tangled mess. But—and there’s always this saving grace, they’ll still be what they are: earphones. </p>
<p>One simply needs to untangle the wires.</p>
<p>As his last student for the day haltingly plunks out the melody of Sonatina 5 in G Major, an ironically happy and chipper tune, that’s exactly what Bertholdt tries to do. </p>
<p>Fact: Reiner obviously wasn’t pissed and ignoring him completely after all, nor was he weirded out—he was just sick.</p>
<p>The distortion: Reiner is obviously sick, and sick of Bertholdt too, probably. No, what if the reason he’s sick in the first place is because Bert keeps him from getting a decent amount of rest with all the noise he’s making? Maybe Bertholdt can go a couple of days at a time without practice… maybe he should stop practicing at the apartment. Maybe—no.</p>
<p>No, stop. </p>
<p>Reiner had said Bertholdt’s playing helped him sleep, and there’s no reason the man would lie about that. Fact.</p>
<p>Another fact: Reiner is definitely an artist, alright, and he seems just as eager as Bertholdt is to become… friends, or something.</p>
<p>But. But—but why only now? </p>
<p>Why now, when Bertholdt has been living there for years—why now when Reiner had moved in several months ago already?</p>
<p>Is it because he wanted something?</p>
<p>What other ulterior motives could he have in making contact /now/? </p>
<p>There must be something.</p>
<p>But then, the fact is… Reiner had given him that lovely painting. And the free drink, too. If he’d wanted something from Bertholdt, he’d already invested way too much in exchange for almost nothing from Bert’s end. Reiner is definitely the party that’s losing out.</p>
<p>Still…</p>
<p>And then there’s the easy camaraderie—way too easy for strangers who’d barely spoken before, right? They just exchanged silly post-it notes and then Bert had approached Reiner, and now… and now he doesn’t know whether the man hung out with him out of his genuine interest, or whether it’s because Bertholdt had all but cornered him. Certainly, Bertholdt isn’t /that/ interesting—he’d heard it all before, how dull he is and how—</p>
<p>“Mr. Hoover?” </p>
<p>Bertholdt snaps out of his thoughts and looks down at his student, mind racing before he settles it enough to remember what they had been practicing before he’d tried to unweave the mess in his head, “You should keep practicing to play with continuity. You spend too much time pausing and it throws you off. Read the score and pay attention to the annotations.”</p>
<p>Udo’s shoulders slump. Bertholdt winces.</p>
<p>“But you’re doing well. I didn’t improve at nearly the same pace as you have. Believe it or not, I was pretty bad. Still am, sometimes,” Bertholdt says self-deprecatingly, making a show of checking the time. “Anyways, I think we should call it a day.”</p>
<p>“Thanks, Mr. Hoover,” Udo says with a sigh, adjusting his reading glasses. “Mom was asking if you wanted to stay for dinner.”</p>
<p>“I can’t,” Bertholdt answers immediately.</p>
<p>“You know she isn’t going to stop asking, right? Isn’t it better to just get it over with? Rip the bandaid off,” Udo snarks, helping Bertholdt gather up the sheets and setting the baby grand back to rights. “I’d tell her to knock it off, but you know how she is.”</p>
<p>Bertholdt winces.</p>
<p>He doesn’t particularly appreciate the advances his pupil’s mother has made on him, and he’d thought about refusing to tutor the boy, but then really, who was he to deny Udo a chance at learning to play? It isn’t like she’s forced herself on him, even if she does get weirdly close sometimes. It’s a small price to pay, a small, innocuous thing to endure. He’s been the only teacher who Udo has liked, he’ll be damned if he doesn’t stick around.</p>
<p>“Same time next week?” Udo asks as they walk to the foyer. “I’ll master the piece by then.”</p>
<p>Bertholdt slings his messenger bag over his shoulders and nods, “I’ll see you next week. Don’t overdo it.”</p>
<p>“I won’t. Bye, Mr. Hoover. I’ll let mum know you’re on a hot date. With a dude!”</p>
<p>“Please don’t,” Bert sighs, but the door has already been slammed shut.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -</p>
<p>“So you've been talking to this Reiner guy—“</p>
<p>“Writing—“</p>
<p>“—post it notes, yes, sure, whatever, and then he made you a declaration of love painting and took you out on a—“</p>
<p>“It was a piano! And I was the one who asked, and it wasn’t a date, it was just—“</p>
<p>“—on a /date/… and now you want to crash at my place instead of going back home, knocking on his door, and having the most mind-blowing sex after you’ve basically been celibate for what, two years now?”</p>
<p>“Pieck!” Bertholdt groans, burying his face in his hands. So much for coming here to avoid confrontation. “It isn’t like that.”</p>
<p>“But you do have the hots for him, right?”</p>
<p>Bertholdt flops down sideways on her couch with another groan, covering his face with one of the fuzzy throw pillows she always has on there. He hears Pieck walk over, and feels her looming presence over him. The pillow is shifted from his face, and then Bert is looking up at a curtain of her hair as she leans over him. </p>
<p>“Bertholdt Hoover, it’s about time you put yourself out there again.”</p>
<p>“It’s really not,” Bertholdt tells her, sitting back up and glaring at her when he manages to pick a couple of strands of her hair from his face. “How do you never run out of hair?” </p>
<p>“Why not?” Pieck asks, ignoring his comment completely as she settles herself beside him, her eyes and the tone of her voice are gentle.</p>
<p>Coaxing. </p>
<p>“It’s not what you think it is,” Bertholdt blurts out, which he instantly regrets because now Pieck is /definitely/ thinking it’s about his last disaster of a relationship. “There’s just a lot going on, with the start of my new job. And then after I’m… I’m considering your suggestion. To move, you know? And it’s... I barely know him. It’s just not the right time.”</p>
<p>“Turtle,” Pieck sighs, “if you keep insisting on waiting for the right time, you’re gonna end up missing out on a lot of things.”</p>
<p>“Weren’t you warning me about him being an organ harvester just last week,” Bertholdt grumbles as she takes his hand. “Besides, I don’t… I’m not…”</p>
<p>“Alright,” Pieck soothes. “I’m sorry, you’re right, you shouldn’t rush into things. But you like him, right? Even if it’s just platonically. I haven’t ever heard you talk about anyone like this in a long time. Why not just get to know him? As friends.”</p>
<p>Bertholdt turns the thought over in his head, and as usual, Pieck manages to be the voice of reason when he inevitably works himself up over such simple things. It isn’t her that has the problem, after all. He wishes he doesn’t need to rely on her so much with his constant overthinking, wishes he could just stop his mind from worrying over every little thing, wishes that he could go a week and /not/ need to call her or drop by her apartment…</p>
<p>“Bert,” Pieck calls, squeezing his hand, “you don’t have to do anything you aren’t comfortable with. You know that.”</p>
<p>He does.</p>
<p>He does, and yet it’s so, so difficult for him to set boundaries, or to say no to something, or to know when to stop.</p>
<p>“I just… don’t want it to happen again. I’ve been doing better. I’m better, right?”</p>
<p>Bertholdt turns and looks at her, the creeping doubt about his progress making a grab for his heart in a vice grip that has it thrumming. He has been doing better—he can leave his apartment now, hell, he lives in his /own/ apartment now. He can interact with people more freely. He isn’t crippled by his anxiety and his doubts anymore, he’s even gotten himself a nice, respectable, well-paying job. He’s better.</p>
<p>He’s /better/.</p>
<p>“You’ve been doing amazing, turtle, and I’m really proud of you.”</p>
<p>Bertholdt nods, feeling the tension in his chest drain a little bit at Pieck’s conviction.</p>
<p>“How about a movie, and then we’ll see how you feel about heading home?”</p>
<p>“I guess,” Bertholdt acquiesces, knowing that she’d let him stay if he really wants to, but also that she just wants what’s best for him when she urges him to not run away from every little thing that makes him uncomfortable. “Popcorn?”</p>
<p>“As if you even need to ask.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -</p>
<p>Bert goes home three movies later, even though Pieck had insisted he stay because of the late hour. </p>
<p>There’s a note on his door, and despite Bertholdt’s conflicting feelings about his and Reiner’s little exchanges, it still warms his heart to be able to have this back. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <i>‘Heya, I realized I didn’t get to thank you earlier, so thank you. We should hang again soon. I slipped my # under your door so you can text to meet at Trost or something.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>R’</i>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Bertholdt unlocks his door and finds another note on the floor with Reiner’s number. He takes a moment to close the door and undress first before he settles on his bed and takes out his phone, plugging it into his charger. The display clock in the left hand corner says it’s past two in the morning.</p>
<p>Surely Reiner will be asleep by now, but Bertholdt types out a text anyways, feeling giddy and wrecked all at the same time. </p>
<p> </p>
<p><b> To: Reiner Braun<br/>
2:18am </b><br/>
Hi, sorry, just got home. Hope I didn’t wake you. Yes, we should hang again sometime.</p>
<p><b> To: Reiner Braun<br/>
2:19am </b><br/>
It’s Bertholdt by the way.</p>
<p><b> To: Reiner Braun<br/>
2:19am </b><br/>
In case it wasn’t obvious.</p>
<p><b> To: Reiner Braun<br/>
2:20am </b><br/>
I didn’t mean to sound sassy. I wasn’t trying to be sarcastic, I promise. But yeah, sorry. I’ll stop, sorry if I disturbed you. Goodnight, sorry.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Bertholdt shuts his phone off and groans at himself. He can almost feel the scoff and the eye roll from the other man—can feel the annoyance in his voice when they meet again, /if/ Reiner even wants to meet him again now that Bertholdt—</p>
<p>Buzz.</p>
<p>Bertholdt holds his breath. Another minute passes.</p>
<p>Buzz.</p>
<p>Bertholdt scrambles to pick up his phone and, sure enough, he’s got two messages from Reiner. He pulls open his bedside drawer and shoves the device inside, heart pounding.</p>
<p>Why is he like this? </p>
<p>Fuck, he should… fuck.</p>
<p>Bertholdt reaches up and bites at his nail, then pulls open the drawer again. He waits a while, he doesn’t know how long, and almost jumps when his phone vibrates again with another message. </p>
<p> </p>
<p><b> From: Reiner Braun<br/>
2:26am </b><br/>
Shit, you came back this hour? </p>
<p><b> From: Reiner Braun<br/>
2:28am </b><br/>
I hope you took an Uber at least, our neighborhood isn’t exactly friendly. Glad you’re back, though, and haha you’re good, don’t worry. Any chance you’re feeling up to playing one song?</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The most recent one, and wow—Bertholdt’s been zoning out for ten minutes?—is an apology from the man.</p>
<p> </p>
<p><b> From: Reiner Braun<br/>
2:38am </b><br/>
Sorry, you must be tired. Goodnight then, Bertholdt.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Bert’s thumbs hover over the letters before he types out a message.</p>
<p> </p>
<p><b> To: Reiner Braun<br/>
2:41am </b><br/>
Any requests? </p>
<p> </p>
<p>The response comes in an instant.</p>
<p> </p>
<p><b> From: Reiner Braun<br/>
2:41am </b><br/>
Surprise me :)</p>
<p> </p>
<p>- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <b> Reiner </b>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The weak light filtering in through Reiner’s window is enough to jolt him and make him realize that they’d pulled an all-nighter. It isn’t exactly rare for Reiner to do that even without a reason, but he doesn’t know how commonplace it is in Bertholdt’s own routine, and he feels instantly guilty for having kept the man up. </p>
<p>Still, he can’t help but grin when he scrolls through his phone and rereads his message history. </p>
<p> </p>
<p><b> From: Bert H.<br/>
2:55am </b><br/>
How was that? Hope it wasn’t too depressing haha</p>
<p><b> To: Bert H.<br/>
2:57am </b><br/>
Surprise indeed lol. I actually knew that one. </p>
<p><b> From: Bert H.<br/>
2:58am </b><br/>
Another? I’m assuming it didn’t work in boring you to sleep. What are you doing up anyways?</p>
<p><b> To: Bert H.<br/>
2:59am </b><br/>
I’m always eager for more. And I resent that—I said soothing :( was having trouble sleeping, I think I might need Theraflu or some shit. Throat is killing me. </p>
<p><b> From: Bert H.<br/>
3:03am </b><br/>
Sorry, bathroom break. Let me play you another one then, let’s hope it works like a cough drop. If not, I take full responsibility and will get you that theraflu—gross btw.</p>
<p><b> From: Bert H.<br/>
3:03am </b><br/>
Theraflu, I mean!!! Not that you have a cough.</p>
<p>From: Bert H.<br/>
3:03am<br/>
You get what I meant. Sorry, let me just start.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>One song became two, and two became four, until Reiner couldn’t keep track anymore of all the titles Bert had been sending him together with his own observations and descriptions about particular pieces. Bertholdt, Reiner had discovered—with much delight, was more chatty behind a screen. A bit snarkier too, a great contrast to how he had been in person. It’s something Reiner thinks could be worked on.</p>
<p>They just need to thaw the ice a bit more. </p>
<p>And speaking of… </p>
<p> </p>
<p><b> From: Bert H.<br/>
5:58am </b><br/>
How is it nearly six already?</p>
<p><b> From: Bert H.<br/>
6:01am </b><br/>
Hey Reiner, did you fall asleep?</p>
<p><b> From: Bert H.<br/>
6:09am </b><br/>
I think you dozed off. I’ll go make a pot of coffee, thank god for weekends huh? Wait, do you need to go to work? I am so, so sorry for keeping you up!</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Reiner shakes his head, grinning.</p>
<p> </p>
<p><b> To: Bert H.<br/>
6:10am</b><br/>
No, just reliving that song you played just now in my head lol. Good that you don’t have work, had me worried. I called in sick too dw, but also I believe you owe me a Theraflu. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Reiner debates for a couple of minutes before firing off his next text.</p>
<p> </p>
<p><b> To: Bert H.<br/>
6:14am</b><br/>
How about a walk and coffee at Trost?</p>
<p><b>From: Bert H.<br/></b>

6:15am<br/>
Oh, would you look at that—seems I’ve run out of coffee. Meet in 10.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>No beta, I post once I finished—we die like Marco lololol any and all mistakes are mine and mine alone, just wanted to get this up before I catch some z’s.</p>
<p>They are so fun to write but also like... I just wanna bash their heads in coz I know what happens in this here little fic o mine XDDDDD</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Seven Nation Army… Sorta</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Introductions to friends are made. Their lives become more intertwined.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>So, I said to myself that I’d post an update when the next episode dropped... y’all should know by now that I subscribe to ‘the lies I tell myself’ magazine 😂 but here ya go anyways!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>Reiner </b>
</p>
<p>Porco’s padded shin lands a blow that sends Reiner staggering back a couple of steps, and though he’d put up a block and they’ve both got equipment on, it still makes his head reel and his arm smart painfully. It takes him only a split second to get his bearings again, though. His feet know the drill as he shuffles and circles around the other man—muscle memory taking over. Their current class is watching the sparring demo, and while that isn’t exactly nerve-inducing, the fact that Annie is also there to observe is the thing that makes Reiner snap his attention back into focus.</p>
<p>He doesn’t want to incite her displeasure and earn himself another punishment, after all, especially since this first one isn’t exactly rightly deserved. He just asked for an early out, did that really warrant a showdown? So what if it was the nth time he’d asked for it in the past two months, he’d been steadfastly doing overtime for years.</p>
<p>They really need to get off his back about every little thing that he does that’s /different/. </p>
<p>They all tell him to get his shit together, then expect him to act just the same as ever. It’s as though they’re just waiting for him to fuck up and fail, and then go back to the bottle. To just up and fall off the wagon again. It puts even more strain on their already tenuous friendship. </p>
<p>Another kick from Porco makes him pull his left leg up to make the blow glance off rather than connect, and Reiner curses himself for letting his mind drift again. It messes with his footwork just a little bit, but he’s light on his feet, despite his bulk. It’s only because of that fact that he doesn’t go down when Porco tries for another kick, that one missing entirely.</p>
<p>If Reiner doesn’t retaliate soon, though, Porco will whittle him down and wear him out, and the man knows it.</p>
<p>Reiner glares at the shit eating grin he can see on Porco’s face even behind his raised fists. </p>
<p>“Sloppy!” Annie calls out. “He isn’t one of your trainees. Be serious.”</p>
<p>Reiner grunts.</p>
<p>He hates that she’s making a spectacle of this. It isn’t even usually in their routine to give sparring demos, and that’s exactly how he’d known she was punishing him. The fact that it’s Porco too, is just adding fuel to the proverbial flames.</p>
<p>“C’mon, Reiner. Come at me,” Porco taunts, his words muffled, but Reiner understands all the same. “Gimme a challenge.”</p>
<p>If it were any other day, Reiner would’ve made him eat those words, but right now, he’s kind of in a rush. He decides, ‘fuck it’, and that he’ll take whatever Annie will throw at him for losing this bout. He lets himself get baited, suppressing the part of him that’s going against an offensive charge, and comes in with a swing towards Porco that misses as the man dodges expertly, bending slightly at the knee and ducking right into Reiner’s center, throwing his own fist out. </p>
<p>Reiner’s momentum and the force behind Porco’s punch is enough to make the blow hit harder than it should, and then another one catches him smack in the face.</p>
<p>He hears a chorus of “ouch!” and “oohs!” from their spectators, and even a hiss from Porco.</p>
<p>There’s a moment of dazed confusion before the pain flares, and Reiner immediately brings his hand over his nose. He wheezes through his mouth when he feels the achy feeling in his chest from the counter.</p>
<p>“Shit,” Porco grunts, spitting out his mouth guard and tilting his head. “You good? I didn’t hit you that hard, did I?” </p>
<p>Reiner shrugs, pulling his hand away and seeing blood, then swiping at the leak that’s dripping down past his lips. He tilts his head back and pinches the bridge of his nose, a coppery tang filling the cavity of his mouth. The bright red surprises him too—it’s been a long time since he’d had a nosebleed from a sparring session.</p>
<p>“Shouldn’t have blocked that with my face.”</p>
<p>“No, you shouldn’t have. Annie’s right, that was sloppy,” Porco snorts. “See, that’s what you shouldn’t do, kiddos. Don’t block with your face. Class dismissed! Get your asses started on those cool downs!”</p>
<p>Reiner rolls his eyes and waves off concerned questions, trying not to let Annie’s piercing glare get to him. Before she can tear into him, Marcel comes over with a towel, giving Porco a light smack on the arm as he hands it over so Reiner doesn’t bleed all over the floor.</p>
<p>“You shouldn’t have thrown that punch. Even I could see he was just itching to get it done,” Marcel sighs. “I didn’t count that as a win, so you’re still tied up.”</p>
<p>“Hey! That isn’t fair. I was caught up in the heat of battle, you can hardly blame me,” Porco responds, rubbing at the spot with a frown. “You’re losing your touch, Braun. Making me look like a bully.”</p>
<p>Reiner stops prodding at his nose, raising an eyebrow, “I don’t need to help you in that regard, Porco.”</p>
<p>“Where are you going?” Annie cuts in, face impassive, but the steel in her eyes says she’s anything but. “This is the fourth time this week.”</p>
<p>“Not that it’s any of your business, but I’m meeting with someone,” Reiner answers easily. </p>
<p>“Who?” Porco follows up, dropping to the mat and taking off the paddings. “You don’t have friends, remember?” </p>
<p>“A hookup?” Marcel adds. “Though you don’t exactly have the afterglow of sex.” </p>
<p>“Only /you/ would notice if Reiner has a sex afterglow,” Porco chortles, and Reiner contents himself with listening to their banter. “Is there something you wanna tell me, big sister?”</p>
<p>“Shut up, Porky.”</p>
<p>Porco throws one of his gloves at his brother’s head, and Reiner chuckles despite himself. The interrogation and grilling gets annoying, but some things just never cease to amuse him with their consistency. </p>
<p>“Seriously though, who?” Marcel asks, taking the gear from his brother as Annie shakes her head and walks away, her interest in his private life lost already. “Eren? Jean? No, don’t tell me it’s that new bald kid—what was his name? Connor?”</p>
<p>“Connie. It’s not anyone you know. He doesn’t come here,” Reiner huffs, offering Porco a hand and pulling him up. “And I’m running late.”</p>
<p>“Ooohhh so it /is/ a hookup? How serious are you? When can we meet him?”</p>
<p>Reiner shakes his head and grumbles, “I’m gonna head home to ice this.” </p>
<p>Before either of the Galliard brothers can protest and accost him for more information, he turns away and heads for their little reception area, shoving his things inside his bag. He ignores Porco’s whining, and Marcel’s not-so-obvious whining, and brushes Annie’s silence out of his head as he dashes for the doors. He can take a shower at home, but more importantly, he needs to get going before any of them can guilt him into staying even more. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <b>Bertholdt </b>
</p>
<p>Bertholdt jumps when he hears the frenzied knocking on his apartment door, letting out a long, relieved sigh after he registers the fact that yes, there actually is someone knocking, and that someone can only be Reiner. He pauses by the mirror he keeps near the door and fixes up his hair and his clothes, trying his best to make it look like he hadn’t spent the past two hours moping about being stood up.</p>
<p>Not that he and Reiner are even dating in the first place for Bert to feel like he’d been stood up or anything, but he certainly wasn’t just sitting around feeling sorry for himself.</p>
<p>Nope, Bert was just watching true crime documentaries and enjoying a good ole cup of coffee by himself.</p>
<p>The knocking comes even more insistently and Bertholdt sighs as he straightens out the collar of his button-down. There’s nothing he can do about how rumpled it looks, though, and his hair is always a mess anyways. Besides that, Reiner hasn’t once mentioned anything about his manner of dress or the state of him for the entire time they’ve been friends now—something that Bertholdt both is relieved by, and disappointed by, all in the same breath. </p>
<p>“Bertl!” </p>
<p>“Coming,” Bertholdt yanks the door open, a comment about punctuality already on his tongue, but is stopped short. “Reiner, what /happened?/” </p>
<p>“What?” Reiner asks back, looking puzzled before he realizes what Bertholdt is talking about—as if /anyone/ could miss the bruise and the swelling. “Oh? You mean my nose? It’s nothing, don’t worry about it.”</p>
<p>“Nothing? It looks twice as big!”</p>
<p>“Hey, my nose isn’t /big/, you jerk.“</p>
<p>“Not the point! Have you iced that? Had it looked at?” Bertholdt fusses, hands reaching up but stilling just over the nasty injury. It looks extremely painful. “Come inside, I think I’ve got some peas or something.”</p>
<p>“Bert, I’m /fine/,” Reiner insists.</p>
<p>Bertholdt stares him down, then grabs hold of the man’s arm and pulls him in just enough for them both to stare at the mirror he’d just been using before he’d answered the door. Reiner’s eyebrows go up, and he looks surprised—Bertholdt resists the urge to say ‘I told you so’. He’s sure his expression conveys the message just fine.</p>
<p>“I promise it didn’t look that bad when I got out of the shower.”</p>
<p>“What happened?” Bertholdt asks again as he pulls the other further into his apartment and closes his door, heading towards his kitchenette and sitting the man down while he rummages for something in his fridge. “Did you get jumped or something?”</p>
<p>They’d already been into one another’s apartment several times over by this point, and though usually that would ring a dozen alarm bells and then some in Bert’s head, there’s just something about Reiner that makes him feel at ease. It’s something he’s only ever felt when he’s around Pieck, and they’d known each other for years. The only difference is, with Pieck it was built on a consistent, solid building of trust throughout their history. With Reiner, it was—still is—like getting hit by a freight train and being able to do nothing but stand there and take it. </p>
<p>“It was my fault,” Reiner sighs, but at least he’s allowing Bertholdt to help. “Porco and I were doing a demo and I wasn’t paying attention.”</p>
<p>Bertholdt winces in sympathy when Reiner slaps the half empty bag of peas onto his face.</p>
<p>“Well… he shouldn’t have hit you that hard.”</p>
<p>“Seriously, I’m fine.”</p>
<p>Bertholdt shakes his head. A tired argument, he already knows, with how Reiner always is when it comes to things like this. He’d learned that early on, after he had actually brought the man some Theraflu following their first outing. The man would probably say he’s fine even if he’s on his deathbed. </p>
<p>“Besides, I was running late. I’m sorry, would’ve gotten off sooner but… Annie. You know how she is,” Bertholdt doesn’t—not really. All he has to go off on are Reiner’s own stories. “Anyways, like I said, I’m fine. And I’m starving.”</p>
<p>“Are you sure you still want to head out?”</p>
<p>“I’ve had worse.” </p>
<p>Bertholdt sighs, nodding as he grabs a sweater to slip over his button down. When his head pops over the top, he finds Reiner staring at him, improvised ice pack all but forgotten and hanging from his hands, dripping condensation down to the floor. Bertholdt shifts self-consciously. It’s a habit of Reiner’s, Bertholdt had noticed—spacing out, daydreaming... but no matter what the man says about it, he can never get used to the staring. </p>
<p>“So. Shall we?” Reiner finally says, breaking the silence. “I’m /really/ hungry.”</p>
<p>Bertholdt sighs and nods. </p>
<p>He just can’t say no to Reiner.</p>
<p>He wouldn’t say no to Reiner even if he could.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -</p>
<p> </p>
<p>They get to Trost in record time, and Reiner only looks slightly guilty for how much Bertholdt is huffing and perspiring by the time they settle in their usual table. He offers a sheepish smile, one that has Bert’s stomach doing flips with how easily it’s being given to him—even when he’d done absolutely nothing to earn it.</p>
<p>“Sorry,” Reiner says, then looks up when Jean saunters over. Bertholdt had learned around their fifth not-date that this was the guy that owns the place. “Jean, the usual for us.”</p>
<p>“Quite the shiner,” Jean drawls, offering Bertholdt a quick wave. “Marco asked me to give these to you if you dropped by. He wants us to add it to the menu.”</p>
<p>The man slides a plate of monstrous looking French toast on the table, and Bert stifles a laugh when Reiner wrinkles his nose at it.</p>
<p>“Breakfast for dinner. You guys are going to make everyone diabetic. Terrible influence. Bert?”</p>
<p>“I’ll have a taste,” Bertholdt says easily, smiling. “Can you pass our thanks? Oh, and tell him I hope to see him at the theater tomorrow.”</p>
<p>“Yeah, whatever,” Jean grumbles, only barely managing to keep his tone from being biting. </p>
<p>Bertholdt raises an eyebrow at Reiner, and the blonde answers with a grin. Bert shakes his head knowingly. Reiner, it seems, has a penchant for working his clients at their gym to the bone, and while Bertholdt can understand why he does it, he doesn’t envy the man for the sour treatment he sometimes gets. It had been a surprise to learn that their circle of friends and acquaintances overlapped just the slightest bit, but ever since, they’d made it a point to hang out even more. </p>
<p>Bertholdt knows he shouldn’t dig too deeply into it, but he does. It can only mean that Reiner enjoys his company enough to weave more parts of their lives together. It can only mean that Bertholdt isn’t as hopeless as he sometimes feels—knows—he is when it comes to socializing and talking to people. It can only mean that there’s a chance that he can find another constant in his life, apart from Pieck and his career. It can only mean that he can maybe, down the line, find another anchor in Reiner. </p>
<p>It’s unfair to place such expectations on the man without him knowing, but Bertholdt doesn’t exactly know how to explain any of it without sounding like a raving lunatic. </p>
<p>Besides, it’s not like he expects them to move in together or get married or anything—or even develop anything beyond the easy friendship.</p>
<p>Bert is contented with this.</p>
<p>Really. </p>
<p>They pass the time as they always do when they go out, with relaxed conversation and updates in their respective careers.</p>
<p>It’s routine now—almost clockwork.</p>
<p>Reiner asks about Bertholdt’s next big event, Bertholdt answers and asks if Reiner is done with the current piece he’s working on.</p>
<p>Reiner voices his complaints about his work load at the gym, and his recent part-timing at a local bar, Bertholdt offers his sympathies and confides in Reiner about how demanding his new job is, plus his discomfort with Udo’s mother trying to hit on him again. </p>
<p>Reiner gives him a look, /the/ look—the one that is equal parts concerned and protective, exasperated and frustrated, the one that makes Bertholdt’s insides flutter anew with genuine happiness that someone /cares/—and tells him to speak up and stand up for himself. Bertholdt gives him a smile and reassures him that he’s handling it and there’s no need to worry.</p>
<p>Reiner rolls his eyes and tells Bertholdt that if he needs Reiner to beat someone up, just to give him a call. Bertholdt laughs and pretends to be offended, but in truth, it practically turns him into putty. </p>
<p>Easy.</p>
<p>Familiar.</p>
<p>Not enough, not nearly enough—</p>
<p>Bertholdt shakes the thought from his head as they share the French toast, squashing down the voice that’s screaming that what they’re doing goes beyond friendship—that there’s something /more/. He ignores it in favor of listening to Reiner comment about how unhealthy half the shit they’re eating is, and reminds himself again that this is as good as it’s going to get. </p>
<p>He reminds himself that he doesn’t /need/ anything more. </p>
<p>That he can’t risk it.</p>
<p>That no matter how much he wishes for /something/ to change, it won’t be worth losing the comfort of what they have now.</p>
<p>That he’ll take what he can get.</p>
<p>Reiner stops mid-rant about the cons of using so much powdered sugar and artificial honey in one meal, his face closing off, eyes clouding over. It startles Bertholdt so much that he doesn’t even realize that the look isn’t directed at him, nor that they’re being approached until someone has dragged a chair over and has planted themselves right beside their table. </p>
<p>“So this is where you were sneaking off to, leaving us to finish wrapping everything up,” the stranger beside him says, and all Bertholdt can do is stare. “I can see why you were so eager, big guy.”</p>
<p>“Porco…” Reiner says lowly, a growl, a rumble. It makes Bertholdt’s skin tingle with arousal and a slight bit of fear. “What the fuck are you doing here? Were you following me?”</p>
<p>“Please, don’t flatter yourself. Who would be interested in your boring ass? We just wanted to grab some coffee. Marcel and Annie had to close shop,” the man, Porco, huffs. He turns his gaze to Bertholdt and grins. “Hi. Porco Galliard, I’m sure Reiner’s told you all about me.”</p>
<p>The other is offering a hand, and Bert hesitantly accepts and introduces himself, peering at Reiner from the corner of his eyes. </p>
<p>The blonde looks murderous.</p>
<p>Bertholdt feels a thrill go up his spine, and an idea pops into his head. In a totally uncharacteristic manner, he turns back to Porco and grins.</p>
<p>“Heard you were the one who handed it to him today,” Bertholdt says easily. “Glad to know he actually can lose.”</p>
<p>Porco laughs.</p>
<p>“Yup. It was me today, but trust me, he gets his ass handed to him every day,” the man snorts. “What lies have you been feeding this poor guy, Braun?”</p>
<p>Reiner doesn’t look amused in the least. In fact, he looks even more pissed now than he had the moment Porco had come over. If Reiner could conjure weather clouds for his current temperament, Bertholdt wouldn't doubt for a second that there would be a storm brewing right over his head. It makes Bertholdt thrum in his seat, fascinated and morbidly curious.</p>
<p>How far is he allowed to push?</p>
<p>Does he even want to?</p>
<p>This is Reiner’s friend—a close friend at that, one with an unspoken, complicated history. Bertholdt wonders how he can use this opportunity to get closer to the man. It makes his chest clench in guilt, but the seed is planted, and Bertholdt wants to reap the fruits of that harvest.</p>
<p>“As you can see, we’re kind of busy,” Reiner hisses, fists clenching.</p>
<p>Porco shrugs, “I wasn’t gonna crash your little date. Just wanted to say hi. You should bring Bertholdt over to the gym sometime.”</p>
<p>Before Reiner can say anything to retort, Porco is already walking away. Bertholdt turns to keep the man in his sights and finds him talking to two other people that had just come in. Annie and Marcel, Bertholdt’s mind supplies. </p>
<p>“Let’s go,” Reiner says, his voice clipped, lips thin with barely concealed annoyance. </p>
<p>Bertholdt knows better than to argue.</p>
<p>They pass the trio on the way out, and while Reiner doesn’t acknowledge them at all, Bertholdt gives a wave when Porco says it was nice meeting him. The cool breeze that hits Bertholdt when they step outside breaks his little edgy streak—not that what he’d said and done can be considered edgy for normal people.</p>
<p>“Where are we going?” Bert asks Reiner when the man takes off in the opposite direction from their apartment.</p>
<p>Reiner remains quiet. Bertholdt decides to follow him, hands tucked into the pockets of his overcoat. A couple of minutes pass by like this, and it affords Bertholdt just enough time and wriggle room for his head to start running again.</p>
<p>Had he upset Reiner?</p>
<p>Why would Reiner be upset at all?</p>
<p>Porco was his friend, after all, and weren’t friends supposed to be happy when their other friends got along? </p>
<p>Or maybe Reiner didn’t want Bertholdt to meet them? Sure, he’d introduced a couple of other people they’d come across at Trost, but that was more of a gesture of politeness.</p>
<p>If so, maybe Bertholdt really had been delusional, reading into things too much yet again. And what if Reiner doesn’t actually see him as a close friend? </p>
<p>Doesn’t want anything but a venting buddy—that’s what Bertholdt is, isn’t it? He’s just someone to vent to, to complain about daily life to. He was a negativity sponge that could absorb anything and everything. Maybe he should stop confiding his own woes while he’s at it, obviously—</p>
<p>“I’m sorry,” Reiner sighs, and Bertholdt almost bumps into him when he stops abruptly. “I… sorry. I wasn’t expecting them to be there.”</p>
<p>Bertholdt observes Reiner’s face for a full minute. </p>
<p>“It’s okay. I want to meet your friends.”</p>
<p>Reiner shakes his head, frowning. “They can be jerks. I know them from way before… well, I’ve known them for years. They’re… a lot to handle.”</p>
<p>Bertholdt shrugs, “You’ve met Pieck, and she’s a lot to handle. And I’ve known Pieck for years too.”</p>
<p>“Hell no,” Reiner snorts, “Pieck is a sweetheart, she’s leagues better than those assholes. I still can’t believe she thinks Porco is /cute/, by the way.”</p>
<p>Reiner resumes walking, Bertholdt falls into step with him easily. Their breaths are fogging as they speak, and Bert is starting to regret not wearing a scarf or bringing his gloves. He’d underestimated the chill. He can’t bring himself to ask that they head home, though. Not when Reiner seems to be opening up to him. </p>
<p>“Pieck can be just as bad,” Bertholdt says, giving Reiner another sidelong glance. “She’d tell you every embarrassing thing that’s ever happened to me if you asked her. And for the record, she thought you were cute too, remember?”</p>
<p>Reiner had met Pieck shortly after they’d started their little get-togethers, and it had been awkward as hell, but it turned out pretty good. Pieck’s easygoing nature and Reiner’s friendly and approachable one meant Bertholdt didn’t even need to suffer through the awkward introductions about how he and Reiner first started talking. The added mortification of them being the cute guys Pieck had been ogling weeks prior had only served to spark livelier conversation between them, much to Bertholdt’s embarrassment. Still, the two had clicked like long lost siblings, so he doesn’t really understand what Reiner is getting at here. </p>
<p>“It’s different,” Reiner insists. “They’re different.”</p>
<p>Bertholdt frowns.</p>
<p>How?</p>
<p>Unless Reiner doesn’t want to be associated with Bertholdt.</p>
<p>Unless Reiner wants to keep him at arm’s length.</p>
<p>“They just… they’re intense, alright? And I don’t want them to gang up on you.”</p>
<p>Bertholdt snorts, not believing it one bit, but he doesn’t comment. They walk in silence until Reiner finally seems to calm down from his little tantrum, and when he does, he’s apologetic enough that Bertholdt can’t hold anything against him for too long. The trek back to their apartment is spent in companionable silence this time around.</p>
<p>Bertholdt still can’t help but second-guess their budding little friendship, and whether he’s getting too comfortable too fast.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <b>Reiner</b>
</p>
<p>“Play me a couple of songs?” Reiner asks Bertholdt as they reach their floor of the apartment building, making sure to keep his expression remorseful. The taller man smiles, giving him a small nod. “Good. Great!”</p>
<p>Bertholdt let’s out a huffy laugh at the fake cheer, and Reiner lets his shoulders slump, dropping the pretense. Bertholdt can be too perceptive to Reiner’s emotions sometimes.</p>
<p>“Sorry,” he says again, but Bertholdt—sweet, understanding, sympathetic Bertholdt, just shrugs.</p>
<p>“It’s fine. I mean, I wouldn’t want to intrude in your private life.”</p>
<p>Reiner shakes his head, but he doesn’t tell Bertholdt how wrong he is. How much he /wants/ Bertholdt to intrude, to get to know him, to explore every single facet that makes Reiner who he is, to see every crack and every fissure, every haphazardly stitched wound, and decide that Reiner is worth the time and the emotional investment. Just… he wants Bertholdt to find out on /his/ terms—not because of what blabbermouth Porco says, not because of Marcel’s meddling, not because of Annie’s intimidation (though he doubts Annie won’t do the complete opposite and scare Bertholdt away.)</p>
<p>He wants Bertholdt to get to know him through his own experience, not some impression everyone else has built. Cliche as it might sound, but Reiner wants Bertholdt to paint his own picture of who Reiner is.</p>
<p>And is it really so bad that he’s tired of being treated like a time bomb?</p>
<p>Bertholdt has seen bits and pieces of him already, and hasn’t started to treat him any differently yet, but that might change if he /knew/ about certain things that don’t even matter anymore, from a past that Reiner has tried so hard to bury and forget. Bert sees more than Reiner the previously-alcoholic hobo, more than the foul moods and nihilistic, cynical views, more than the hand-to-mouth existence that doesn’t seem like it’ll change anytime soon.</p>
<p>No, Bertholdt sees Reiner—the guy that is in love with art and creation.</p>
<p>He sees Reiner, the guy that laughs at cringey jokes and lame puns.</p>
<p>Reiner, the guy that works his ass off for something he loves.</p>
<p>Reiner, the guy that isn’t just the shell of a broken man, or a helpless victim. </p>
<p>Reiner, the guy that can still be happy.</p>
<p>And Bertholdt makes him happy.</p>
<p>Happier than he’s ever been in a long time, and while Reiner knows it’s dangerous and unfair to hinge and hang his happiness onto someone else, he can’t help it. </p>
<p>“Reiner?”</p>
<p>“Sorry,” he sighs, “I was thinking. I… can we do a rain check on that? Meeting my friends, I mean.”</p>
<p>Bertholdt perks up, “Sure. Maybe Pieck and I can come over for some drinks when you need to cover a shift at the bar. Have your friends come over too.”</p>
<p>“No,” Reiner says firmly. Bertholdt seems nonplussed, but he feels he needs to explain anyway. “I just—the bar is loud. Not really a place to hang, you know? Maybe we can go to one of your events and just dinner after. That would be nice, right?”</p>
<p>Bertholdt nods, then tips his head towards his door. “I’ll head in now and find some songs. Any requests?”</p>
<p>Reiner feels a weight lift from his shoulders. </p>
<p>“Tchaikovsky stuff?”</p>
<p>“Oh, a connoisseur of fine music tonight, are we?”</p>
<p>Reiner grins genuinely, “Only because you managed to keep up with my watercolor rants the other day. Besides, I’m working on a Christmas commission. Play the entire nutcracker suite for me, why don’t you?”</p>
<p>“Tall order,” Bertholdt laughs, eyes crinkling at the corners. “I’m assuming you’re going to work with oils. Remember to open your window, alright?”</p>
<p>Reiner nods, walking backwards towards his own door, “I will. Goodnight. And Bertholdt?”</p>
<p>“Yeah?”</p>
<p>“Pieck didn’t say I was cute,” Reiner opens his door, smirking as he lets himself in, “she said I was smoking hot and daddy as fuck.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>As per usual, this chapter felt/feels off to me, but lemme know what y’all think! It feels really short too lololol. Next one is gonna be a bit longer and more interesting, I hope! We’ll be dissecting our favorite suffer boy Reiner and hurting him a lil bit :’) just a little teeny tiny bit :’))</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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